


for you these fics i bring (pa rum pa pum pum)

by lucky_spike



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Escapee Jesus, Fluff, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snowball Fight, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, gabriel and beelzebub are exploring the concept of friendship, good omens advent prompts, sort-of OC Raziel makes an appearance, suggestive pottery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 44,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: Joyous candlenights to all! I am attempting the Good Omens advent calendar fic challenge, and so will collect all my attempts at the prompts herein. Enjoy them: they'll likely mostly be short, and fluffy, and silly. The perfect thing for a cozy candlenights season! So settle in and enjoy these pan-religious, pan-tastic, personal pan fanfics.(Note: Something happened to my brain and there is now a story-within-a-story starting at chapter 15. Subtitle: Happy Birthday Jesus)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), God & Agnes Nutter
Comments: 132
Kudos: 125





	1. Mistletoe

The sprig of mistletoe is hung in the narrow doorway of the pub, leading from the front room to the back. It looks innocent, suspended there in mid-air, and Crowley and Aziraphale are watching it warily. **  
**

“Go through first,” Aziraphale mutters, while Crowley stalks around to lead. “I’ll follow in a minute.”

Crowley hesitates. “You could get us drinks, while you wait. That’ll give it even more time.”

“I think I”ll do just that,” Aziraphale replies, before he turns on his heel and heads back toward the bar. “Get settled, I’ll be along.”

When he arrives back at the bar, Helen pauses in cleaning the surface and raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”

“Mistletoe.” Aziraphale slides onto a stool and doesn’t elaborate. “How about … oh, Crowley can have his usual and I’ll try … ah! The mulled wine is back, I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind.”

Helen nods and sets about making the drinks. She does Crowley’s first - whiskey, neat - and then turns her back to him to ladle the wine out of the warming pot. “I’ve seen a lot of reactions to mistletoe,” she says conversationally, careful not to spill as she works, “But I’ve never seen anyone avoid it like that.” She turns back to Aziraphale and sets the drink down in front of him, eyebrow raised. “I thought you two are together?”

Aziraphale blinks once, and then his face settles into a smile. “Oh, we are. But I believe, my dear, that the misunderstanding lies in the interpretation of the symbolism of the mistletoe.” He sips his own drink, and closes his eyes. “Delicious, Helen, as usual.”

“Thanks.” She points to the sprig of herb in the doorway. “Doesn’t it just mean you have to kiss each other, though?” She’s a little worried: Aziraphale, over the past five years of living in the village, has thoroughly established himself as a knower-of-things, usually things that are old and forgotten by most and sometimes, kind of weird. The kids love it, but Helen finds herself wondering if in this case, she has accidentally got it wrong, and instead of hanging up an innocent holiday symbol of love, she’s invoked some kind of ancient Nordic demon or something.

“That’s one interpretation,” he admits, elbows on the bar. “The most common, certainly. But the root of the tradition was -” Ah, she thought, here it comes, “- fertility.” She stops, and, quite unconsciously, cocks her head. “It was a fertility symbol in Greece, I believe: to hang mistletoe was to ask the gods for blessings of fertility. Similarly, I believe the Celts felt quite strongly that there was a fertility link to mistletoe, and used it in rituals for the same.” He blushes a little. “Apparently it’s to do with the, er, the texture and color of the berries. Not really public conversation. I’m sure you could look it up, if you have a mind.”

“Maybe,” she says, although she has no intention of doing so.

“Anyway,” he goes on with a sigh, “the number of rituals in which passing under the mistletoe or something similar is a plea for fertility is quite vast, and, well … Crowley and I are quite happy with the status quo, at the moment. Best not to tempt fate.”

“Oh.” She thinks about the two of them, and wonders about some things that are most definitely not her business, particularly about Crowley, who has presented as male as long as she’s known him, but also, she has gathered from past conversations, occasionally uses female pronouns when it’s more comfortable. So, rather than pursuing that none-of-my-business train of thought, she says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always thought we were the same age? Bit past that, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale laughs at that, and Helen finds herself laughing along - it just happens that way with him. “I daresay we might be a bit older than you, Helen,” he chuckles. “And you’re probably right. But, well … you know how superstition is. Can’t be too careful.” He starts to gather up the drinks, still chuckling a little.

“Hang on,” she says quickly, not ready to let this new piece of mysterious information slip away so easily. “You two can’t be that much older than I am? Go on, pull the other one.” She gestures to herself. “Either running this pub is wearing on me more than I thought, or you’re keeping an amazing skin-care secret. How old are you?” It’s rude, probably, but she knows them both, and they’re benign enough, if a little odd. She doesn’t think she’ll cause offense. And, indeed, it starts him laughing again, so she reckons she judged it correctly.

“No skin-care secrets here, I’m afraid, just good constitution, I suppose. Maybe a bit of luck. As for my age …” he shrugs and stands up. He has a twinkle in his eye, kind and understanding, as always, but, she recognizes after the years, a little mischievous, too. “Well, Crowley would be furious if I told you, so I won’t.” She nods understandingly, and leans in to meet him, as he lowers his voice. “But also, Helen, I assure you that if I told you, you’d never believe me.”

“Try me.”

He shakes his head, and sips the wine, and turns away. “Cheers, Helen. A secret for another day.” Bemused, she watches him go. He steps through the doorway, the mistletoe swinging gently from its tether in his wake. He rounds the corner, probably towards their usual table, and dips out of sight.


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: flightless demons

The whole mess had started innocently enough: they had been walking home from lunch, the sun bright and crisp on the freshly-fallen snow lining the roads of the village, chatting idly about nothing much in particular. They were on their lane, shoulder-to-shoulder, Aziraphale gesticulating enthusiastically to further reinforce his point about the merits of sustainable fishing, when a drift of pure-white snow caught Crowley’s eye. **  
**

They were nearly home, he’d thought. Just a bit farther to go, past the Kaur’s place on the right and Margie’s on the left, and they’d be there. It wasn’t far …

One snowball wouldn’t hurt. Surely not.

That had been forty minutes and perhaps fifteen exchanged volleys of snow ago. Crowley hadn’t even properly hit the angel with the first one, not really; just a little glancing blow off his shoulder that didn’t do much more than give Aziraphale pause and leave a smudge of crystals on his coat.

He’d spun to face Crowley, eyes wide with surprise, and then glanced to his shoulder. “I see,” he’d said, before nodding quietly, bending down, and packing a snowball of his own.

Crowley had spread his arms. “Get one in,” he’d sighed. “Go on, suppose I deserve it, although - _oof_.”

So long - for eons - had the angel put forward the image of a kindly middle-aged bookseller that sometimes, even Crowley forgot that was not his original nature. Sometimes, Crowley forgot that in the Beginning - before Eden, before the Fall - Aziraphale had been a soldier. Aziraphale had been made to be strong, decisive, and bloody accurate with edged weapons. Now, a snowball certainly wasn’t an edged weapon, but it was a _thrown_ weapon, and although swords were Aziraphale’s speciality, he wasn’t any slouch with projectiles. 

The impact had caused Crowley to stumble backwards half a step, trip over the ridge of plowed snow at the edge of the lane, and fall ungracefully into a drift. “Oh dear,” he’d heard Aziraphale say, as he struggled to untangle his limbs and extricate himself from the freezing cold pile of fluffy precipitation. “So sorry, dear boy, forget my own strength sometimes -”

Crowley rolled to his side, the better to push himself to standing. “No you don’t,” he growled. “You bastard, you did that on purpose.” 

“You did start it, to be fair.” Aziraphale raised a hand and pointed at Crowley. “I only retaliated in self-defense.”

“Yeah, well, think I’ll follow your lead.” He snatched up a handful of snow and started packing. “I didn’t _know you over - Oi_!” Another snowball caught him in the shoulder, more gently this time, but still startling. He looked up, wide-eyed behind the glasses. “Self defense, eh?”

“You’re clearly readying an attack,” he said, and he already had a third snowball in hand. How had he done that so quickly? Crowley snarled. “Ah. So it’s come to this, then.” He ducked away from Crowley’s second attack, and baseball-pitched the third snowball into the demon’s belly, eliciting a grunt. “Very well. Winner takes all, I suppose. You have no one to blame but yourself,” he added, before he took off running.

That had been forty minutes ago. Initially, they had taken up stations on either side of the back garden wall, engaging in a ridiculous pastiche of trench warfare, but then Crowley had started to use the surrounding shrubbery to advance on Aziraphale’s position, forcing the angel to retreat into the open field beyond. With a yell, Crowley vaulted over the garden wall, fully prepared to charge, but instead he landed in Aziraphale’s dug-out base of operations, ringed with snowballs. Aziraphale himself was nowhere in sight, just drifts of pristine white snow all the way to the cliffs. Momentarily stymied, Crowley groaned, but then the footprints in the snow caught his eye, and he snickered to himself, gathering up an armful of ammunition and cautiously following the trail into the field.

It was open country, and he was exposed, but abysmal though his vision was, he was well-attuned to patches of heat among the drifts of cold. Of which, he noted, there were none. He watched his back as best he could, glancing this way and that, snowballs clutched to his chest, as he walked along the trail of footprints, but nothing appeared, no blobs of heat in the snow, no hint of a brown coat, no quick movement that might have given the angel away. So he went on after the footprints for a while, one snowball ready in his hand, until suddenly they just …

Stopped.

Crowley scowled. “Oh, you bastard,” he growled. “No fair.” He looked up. 

Blue sky stretched around, dotted with wispy white clouds and absolutely no hint of an angel at all. _Of course not_ , part of Crowley thought, _he wouldn’t go that far, to cheat and go where I can’t follow. He’s a bastard, but he’s not that kind of a bastard. Still,_ a larger part of him thought, _He likes to win and he’s an utter competitive terror_ , and so Crowley circled in place, watching the sky for another minute more, before realizing that maybe if he had taken flight, he might have headed back toward the cottage, and already built up an arsenal in the garden …

Snow crunched a little to his right. It was quiet, barely there, but Crowley heard it, and he spun.

There was nothing there, of course. Just more drifted snow, blown and whipped by the wind across the cliffs until it had broom-sweep trails in it -

_It’s not windy_ , thought Crowley, leaning down to study the odd pattern on the surface of the snow better. The marks were strange: they might have been made by the wind, but it would have had to be sustained wind, strong wind, and aside from the cold and snow the weather had been mild. The might also, he realized with dawning horror, have been made by something sweeping the surface of the snow smooth. Something like a brush, or a wing -

“ _Got you now, chuckaboo!_ ” Crowley spun to the source of Aziraphale’s voice just in time to see one of the drifts explode outwards as the angel shook the covering of snow loose from his equally-white wings and leapt, bearing Crowley down into the next drift over.

“Argh!” Crowley yelped, as snow slid down the back of his coat and into his shirt. He struggled a little, but Aziraphale had him pinned, wings arched over the two of them, doubtlessly re-creating the illusion of just another snow drift along the cliffs. “Cold!” he managed.

Aziraphale looked inordinately pleased with himself. “I’d imagine so. You did start it, dear. Do you surrender?”

Crowley tried to keep his teeth from chattering, and wished desperately that he’d worn the heated coat instead of the flashy wool number. To be fair, though, he hadn’t expected a snowball fight. 

Which he’d started. But still.

“Will you let me up if I do?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Only after a gesture of peace, of course, but yes.”

“Sure, whatever. I surrender.” He grinned, matching the angel’s, because he had a fairly good idea what the gesture of peace would entail.

“Then to the victor go the spoils,” Aziraphale said, smug, as he leaned in and kissed Crowley. In spite of the snow now melting inside his coat, Crowley flushed warm for a moment, propping himself up on his elbows to follow the angel up even as he leaned away, stretching the kiss out just a lovely millisecond longer. Aziraphale pulled back all the way though, and smiled fondly down at Crowley for a beat, idly brushing some snow from his demon’s red hair and folding his wings out of sight, before he said, “You’re shivering.”

“Only for a bit.” Still, he let Aziraphale help him up, and he leaned happily into the angel when the shorter entity looped his elbow through Crowley’s and started leading them home. “Nap’ll fix me right up.”

Aziraphale jostled his shoulder. “None of that; I won’t have you going into brumation when we have the holidays in Tadfield coming up. Besides,” he added, still chuckling with self-satisfied glee intermittently, “we agreed that winner takes all, did we not? We have to settle on what ‘all’ entails.”

“You had something in mind?” Crowley asked, knowing damn well that the answer to that question would be ‘yes’.

“I do,” Aziraphale confirmed. He waited for Crowley to tug open the back gate, and then walked arm-in-arm into their garden with him. They didn’t bother to close the gate, instead treading along the path to the double doors into their shared cottage. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I hope it involves warming up.”

“Oh, it does,” Aziraphale confirmed, “although I’m sure not in the way you’re inferring, you old serpent.” Inside, he began to unbutton Crowley’s coat, pausing only to snap a fire into the grate. He hung the coat on one of the hooks by the fire, and waved a hand toward the bedroom. “Get something dry on, I’ll do cocoa.”

Crowley started backing from the room slowly, still watching Aziraphale as the angel stripped out of his own wet coat. “With you so far. Then what?”

Aziraphale looked out of the doors, and then back to the living room, and Crowley, who had paused in the opening into the hall. “It’s a lovely day for reading, and the sofa does look rather inviting, doesn’t it?” Crowley nodded, unable to help himself and breaking into a toothy (fangy) grin. “I was thinking we’re nearly done with that horror novel of yours, and then perhaps I’ll hold you captive further so you can put on a few episodes of that show with the cakes.” Aziraphale smiled wickedly. “I know it sounds like a terrible punishment, but, dear boy, I will remind you again that you _did_ start it.”

“So I did,” Crowley said, before backing out of the room and turning for the bedroom, hands in his soggy pockets, not minding the cold one whit. “So I did.”


	3. Nutcracker

Not for the first time, of the fifth, or even the hundredth, did Anathema find herself idly wondering what might have been written in the burned book. She wonders if it would have had more stock tips, more warnings about travel, more sort-of-creepy windows into the love lives of future descendants. And she wonders if that was all Agnes ever saw, or did she see the entire future, every moment and second, and only decide to write down the ones that seemed important?

She wonders, like she does sometimes, if Agnes would have seen this. She wonders if she would have thought it important enough to write. On one hand, she imagines it is probably a blip in the greater picture, something that overall would not warrant the ink used to record it. On the other, well …

It does involve one of Agnes’s descendants - Anathema’s eldest daughter, Millie - battling a demon, while an angel cheers her on. Granted, the demon is letting her win, but all the same.

Newt, wonderful Newt, is playing the part of announcer, and he calls out the action as Millie runs across the living room, clambers over the back of the couch, and stands on the cushions, looking down over Crowley who is on the floor, on his back. “She’s made the leap onto the ropes and -  _ oh no _ , I think this is it. The finishing move.” Millie stalks theatrically back and forth. Crowley, in a maneuver that he has wisely learned through a series of these matches, covers his head. 

“Although she’s well-known for the coffee-table-clobber,” says Newt, recipient of many such moves, dropping his voice to hushed tones, “Rumor has it she’s been trying out a new finisher.” She has, and Newt knows it. He has, after all, been the test audience. More quietly still, he says, “I don’t know if you’ve got internal organs but I’d be ready to guard them.”

Crowley looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “ _ ‘Course _ I’ve got organs, what sort of daft -  _ aargh _ .” Millie had leapt, diving from the couch elbow-first into the demon’s solar plexus with her entire forty pounds of weight behind it. Crowley does not need to breathe, and they all - Millie included - know this, but she knocks the wind out of him anyway. 

“A perfectly executed couch cracker!” Newt yells, triumphantly, and he even does the sounds of the cheering crowd. Millie stands over her vanquished foe, hands upraised. “I think he’s down for the count, Millie Pulsifer is the winner!” The little girl giggles as Azirphale scoops her up, holding her high enough for her little fingers to brush the ceiling as she waves her hands around in triumphant glee. “A victory for the ages!”

“I’m the champion!” Millie crows, before demanding her victory prize of some biscuits. Aziraphale, ever the baked-good enabler, agrees that that seems entirely deserved, and carries her off to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh-baked polvorones is still heavy in the air. Newt follows, re-capping the epic battle blow-for-blow as they go.

Anathema watches them go, dropping onto the couch over Crowley and smiling, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. “You alright?”

“You have to stop letting her watch wrestling.” He grunts and rolls onto his side. “I know I’m immortal, but really. And Newt lets her test that on him?”

“Oh, yeah. You actually got lucky.” She watches him get up, a little gingerly if she’s honest. “You should have seen the pilot attempts. They were a little … ah, lower on the abdomen.”

Crowley lifts up his t-shirt and sweater far enough to ensure that whatever bruise might have been thinking about forming would reconsider the options. “Poor Newt,” he says, and she knows that these days that might even be half-sincere. 

She giggles. “The couch cracker is the new name.” She glances over her shoulder, making sure the other three are still in the kitchen and distracted by cookies and powdered sugar, before she drops to a low whisper, “When she first started trying it out, after she watched all those Lita matches? Newt called it the nutcracker.”

Crowley winces. “Right. Yeah, I get it. Almost makes me feel bad for him.” Anathema nods in agreement. “At least he talked her out of it, I suppose.”

“Not as fast as he would have liked - she got him good two or three times first.” She snorts. “Good thing we only ever planned on two kids, I guess.”

“That bad?” Crowley asks, a little wide-eyed. “You’re not serious.”

“No,” she admits. “It was a joke. But he did wonder, after the third time - there was a very brief discussion of A&E.” She laughs at the memory. “Can you imagine the looks on the doctors’ faces?” They share a laugh over that shared image, and she sits back deeper into the couch. “I wonder if Agnes would have predicted it.”

Crowley snorts. “That’d be a prophecy and a half. Old Agnes trying to predict WWE? ‘When thee childe grows fond of thee warriors in spanned-dex, beware, for the witchfinder’s line may bee at rifk.”

Anathema laughs at that, just a giggle at first, and then hard enough to draw the attention of the other three in the kitchen. “ _ Spanned-dex _ ,” she wheezes, while Newt and Aziraphale exchange a shrug, and her face and stomach ache, tears running down her cheeks. 

In another place, somewhere miles above and also just inches from Anathema, a handsome woman in a sensible, 17th-century dress, frowns into her teacup. The table in front of her, fuzzy at the edges but also, in another way, sharp as glass and suspended in the void of space, is strewn with playing cards. “Couldn’t be helped they hadn’t invented Lycra when I was alive,” she mutters. “I did my best, you know.”

“No,” the other figure at the table agrees. “I know you did. I was there.”

“ _ I was there _ ,” the handsome woman mimics, although there is a great deal of affection behind it. “‘Course you were, you smug git. You think I didn’t know that?”

The other figure smiles, and shuffles the cards. “I think you should talk less and pay more attention to the game. You very nearly got the hang of the rules, last time around.” The figure deals out a hand, patiently, and sits back. “You might figure it out, this game.”

“I never will.” Still, she picks up her cards and looks down at them, shuffling the  _ Uno _ cards over to the right of the jack of spades. 

“You’ve come closer than anyone else,” the figure says, encouragingly. “Go on, you start this time.” They lean their elbows onto the table, and smile widely at the woman. Somewhere in space, a star thrums with light, and the handsome woman studies her cards with narrowed eyes. 

“Give me a minute,” she says peevishly. “I have to think of how to start.”

The figure across from her beams, slides the woman’s teacup over to take a sip. “No worries,” they say, with a happy little shrug. “Take your time. You’ve got all of it you need.”


	4. Cranberry

“It’s horrific,” Aziraphale breathes, awed. “It’s … it’s a crime.”

“I love it,” says Crowley, leaning down to get a clearer look. “ _ Look at it _ .”

Anathema sighs. “It tastes good.”

“ _ How _ ?” the angel prods the plate the thing is sitting on cautiously, and watches in horror as it jiggles unnervingly. “How can this possibly taste like anything besides … besides preservatives and sugar and evil?”

Crowley, experimentally, picks up the spoon laid beside it and prods at it, ready to jump back, as if it might suddenly gain sentience and attack him. “I wanna eat it,” he says, in the hushed tones of someone who is tempted and also knows well that the temptation may destroy him. “I have to eat it.”

“ _ Crowley, no _ ,” Aziraphale grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him back, just as he swipes to bring the spoon down onto the cylinder. He misses and hits the edge of the plate instead, and the crimson monstrosity wiggles forlornly. “No,” he repeats, digging his heels into the rug as Crowley struggles against him. “You will not.”

Newt turns the corner from the living room into the kitchen, and takes in the tableau: Anathema, amused but somewhat defeated-looking, and an angel holding back a demon from striking the cranberry jelly, spoon raised like a weapon. A variety of responses to this runs through his brain, and although one of the most alluring contenders is ‘turn around and leave’, he instead settles on saying, “You should hear the noise it makes when it comes out of the can.”

As one, the three turn to look at him: Aziraphale, horrified, Anathema, deeply amused, and Crowley, who looks happier than a kid on Christmas morning. “It makes a noise?” Aziraphale asks, voice trembling. 

Although Aziraphale has his arms pinned behind his back, Crowley still manages to snap his fingers. Suddenly, the cranberry jelly is back in the can, re-sealed, as if it had never been opened. “Open it,” he pleads, looking to Anathema. “Open it again.”

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale begs, although his expression is already resigned. “Please, Anathema, think of … of good taste, and decency, and all the things in the world you love.”

She considers it and then, business-like, picks up the can and the can-opener. “I love cranberry jelly,” she says firmly, and clicks the can opener into place. “I don’t care what it looks like, it tastes great, and I’m not having sort-of-Thanksgiving dinner without it.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “This is why England let the colonies go.” He releases Crowley, and the demon stumbles back forward to the table, rapt.

“I think they actually won their independence,” Newt says, somewhat reasonably, but only gets a stern look from Aziraphale in response. He shrinks back, shuffling in reverse out of the room. “I’ll go … re-check the silverware.”

A moment later, the cranberry sauce slides out of the can with a  _ schlorp _ . Aziraphale raises his arm over his face in self-defense, while Crowley breaks into delighted giggles. Again, back on its plate, the garnet cylinder jiggles. This time, when Crowley reaches for it with the spoon, no one stops him. 

“That has to be a creation of Hell,” Aziraphale says with certainty. “It wasn’t you, was it Crowley? Who was responsible for this?”

“I need to shake their hand.” Crowley has raised the spoonful of jelly to eye-level, and is studying it as it jiggles. “I wonder if Eric can get into the files, find out who it was. This is definitely Hell’s work.” And then he eats the little dollop, gazing upwards thoughtfully.

“Like it?” Anathema asks after giving him a moment to consider the taste. “I mean, I know everything kind of tastes the same to you, but anything … stand out?”

Crowley considers it. “It’s sour. Sweet too, I think, but don’t quote me on that.” He swallows. “Mainly though I’m fascinated by the  _ texture. _ S’like … silky, almost.” He hands the spoon over to Aziraphale. “Try some. You’ll probably like it.”

“I will not.”

“ _ Go on _ , angel.” Crowley slices another spoonful off the log and offers it to his partner. “It’s just a little bit. Just taste it.” He jiggles the jelly in the spoon. “ _ Come on _ . You know you’re curious.” His eyes - completely yellow - glitter, peeking out above the rims of his glasses. “ _ Come on _ .”

“Is this how original sin happened?” Anathema asks with a grin. She knows the answer, Aziraphale suspects, so he doesn’t answer besides a curt nod. “He’s very persuasive.”

“You know you want it,” Crowley says, and although there is not a single sibilant in the sentence, he gives off the definite impression of hissing. “Jusst a bite. One. Tiny. Nibble.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a long time, shoulders squared, and then with a strangled cry, takes the spoon carefully from Crowley. The jelly wiggles in triumph. Crowley whoops, pulling his phone out quickly to get ready to memorialize the event. Aziraphale gazes upwards for a moment -  _ I’m sorry _ \- and then he raises his free hand in the sign of benediction. He closes his eyes, whispers, “May God and Petronius forgive me,” and tastes.


	5. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to genitalia

“Remember ancient Rome?” Crowley asks. He is happy, delighted, and utterly unconcerned with his place in the world. He is sitting up straight on the little stool, one foot bouncing happily as he works, studying his craft intensely as he goes along.

It is in sharp contrast to Aziraphale, who by the minute is looking redder, smaller, and more embarrassed. Mortified, even. He is shrinking into his coat, and he is aggressively wondering how much trouble he will get in - exiled or not - if he miracles the two of them out of the studio and makes everyone present forget they were ever there.

Crowley is still talking, and at this point he’s not even looking at what he’s doing, in favor of beaming at his angelic counterpart, all teeth and fangs and schadenfreude. Horrifyingly, he appears to be working by feel, the clay slick and smooth as he molds it. “Remember Pompeii? I loved Pompeii. Shame about the volcano. Did you ever go, before it blew up?”

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale mutters, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone else in the pottery studio has noticed. “ _ Crowley _ , could you please just -”

“Make a bowl like everyone else? No.” The demon frowns. “Anyway, it’s humans that give it all the … the, ah, shit, what’s the word I’m thinking of …” He waves a clay-covered hand vaguely. 

“Stigma?” Aziraphale suggests, as he mentally calculates how disruptive it would be to the rest of the people at the studio -  _ couples’ night, what a ridiculous idea, damn Madame Tracy and her free tickets and her inconvenient head cold _ \- if he threw himself on top of the wheel and crushed the monstrosity into a formless lump. Probably extremely, but more concerning would be the fate of his waistcoat.

“Stigma, that’s it!” Crowley snapped, and clay flew from his fingers, landing on the surrounding walls, on his trousers, and in Aziraphale’s hair. “Stigma. In  _ Pompeii _ ,” he explains, laboriously checking the horrible thing for any imperfections before letting his foot off the wheel and grabbing a tool to do the detail work, “these were a symbol of well-being and good luck. Warded off the evil eye, even.”

Aziraphale groans. “Because no one wants to  _ look at that, Crowley! _ ” he hisses, leaning in to his partner and ensuring no one else can hear them. “I don’t care what it meant 2000 years ago, I know what it means  _ today _ , and you’re the most immature immortal being on the planet, you’re doing this on  _ purpose _ , you’re -”

The instructor claps her hands. “Time’s almost up, everyone! Finish your work and your wine, I’ll be coming around to collect things to fire in the kiln in a few minutes.”

“You going to have her do your vase?” Crowley asks, as if he is not pinching two set-aside lumps of clay into a perfectly obscene shape. “I could put some cut flowers in it come spring. Might look nice.” He lets his glasses slide down his nose for a moment, the better to squint at his work. “Does it look alright, do you think?”

“It’s listing to the left,” Aziraphale says, and then grumbles when Crowley snickers in response. “Not that it  _ matters _ , because you’re going to crush it all back into a ball and give it back to the young lady and apologize for being a child.”

Crowley nods thoughtfully, pushes his creation more upright, and then, after a moment’s consideration, gives it a slight curve. “Don’t think I will,” he says, turning the wheel to take a look at the off-side. 

“You are not going to make her fire that … that  _ thing _ !” He glances around: the instructor is getting closer, a tray of amateur pottery in her hands. It’s all bowls and vases, and Aziraphale is growing more panicked by the second.

Crowley scoffs. “Honestly, Aziraphale, it’s just a pe -”

“Perfectly normal bowl!” Aziraphale says with a laugh, and in that moment, as he snaps his fingers just before the instructor arrives, he sounds equal parts desperate and deranged. “How lovely, wonderful work, dear.”

The instructor, apparently, agrees. “Oh, really nice!” She offers the tray. “Would you like both pieces fired? It’s an extra £4 for the second one.”

Crowley does not respond, although she is closer to him. He is too busy glowering at Aziraphale, a furious scowl twisting his face. Aziraphale smiles at the woman warmly, in a concentrated attempt to offset any of Crowley’s ill-will. “Yes, both, if you please.”

“And would you like them glazed? If not, you can paint them later if you like, otherwise I can do a basic color and glaze them for you.” She shifts nervously, doing her best to avoid looking at Crowley.

“Yes, pl -”

Crowley cuts in, looking sharply up to the instructor. “You can leave the bowl un-glazed, if you don’t mind.”

“O - kay.” She looks between them, a little confused, and then nods. “Okay.” Deftly, she bends down to cut the admittedly clumsy pieces from the wheels, and places them on opposite sides of her tray. “Right, there’s a card with your wheel number on it; if you put your phone number just there I can give you a call when they’re ready.” And then, her obligation fulfilled, she flees.

There is a sink to the side of the room, and the other couples are taking in turns to wash the clay from their hands, chatting and laughing and talking about the rest of their plans for the evening. Aziraphale stands and moves to the back of the line; Crowley follows. They do not speak.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” the angel huffs, once it’s their turn and the gurgling of the water drowns out the sound of their conversation well enough.

Crowley thinks it over, making a few thoughtful little humming noises as he does. “You know why I think you do?”

“I swear, if this is some … some  _ dirty joke _ …”

“Because,” Crowley says, leaning in and trying his best winning smile which is, in this moment, a bit closer to a smug grin, “ _ I _ put up with  _ you _ . We’re perfectly awful together.”

“I am  _ not _ awful. I can’t  _ be _ awful.”

“Yes you can; Anathema thought you were a serial killer when she met you the first time. She was ready to stab you with that bloody great knife she keeps in her purse.”

“That was, I will remind you, after you  _ hit her with your car _ .”

“Right! S’my point. Awful together.” He flinches when Aziraphale balls up a paper towel and throws it at his face. “Rude.” He stuffs the paper towel into Aziraphale’s breast pocket, prompting a fit of indignant sputtering from the angel. “So what’d you wanna do next? Could go to get something to eat, try that absurd rooftop wine bar a few blocks over, be insufferable at the movies …”

Aziraphale does think the movies sound tempting: he has been going to more with Crowley, since the world didn’t end. But then, a part of him is enjoying this bickering, and it would be a shame to retreat to somewhere where silence is obligatory. “It’s a bit cold for a rooftop wine bar, don’t you think?” he says. 

“Well, yeah,” Crowley admits. “But they have those umbrella heater things, and a big firepit that’s lit on nice nights, and I’m sure we could find a couple of seats right by it, overlooking the street, watch the world go by …” He smiles softly. “It’s Christmastime, people’ll be out shopping, getting annoyed, all that. Could be fun to watch.”

“Hm, perhaps,” says Aziraphale, who isn’t sure he agrees with the bits about getting annoyed, but definitely agrees that the bit about sitting by the firepit and watching the world go by with Crowley sounds perfectly lovely.

“I could glue a few coins to the sidewalk, just to spice things up.” Crowley waggles his eyebrows. “Come on, angel. It’s kind of pretentious, but they do have very nice wines.”

“Hm. Do you  _ have _ to do the bit with the coins? We are retired, you know.”

Crowley shrugs. “Yes, but I enjoy it. And I think I deserve it, you know?” They have picked up their coats and are shrugging into them - Crowley never did write his phone number down on the little slip of paper, but neither he nor Aziraphale worry about it: the pottery will find itself in the bookshop just fine after it’s been fired, no pick-up required. “You destroyed my masterpiece, you fiend.”

“It was an atrocity and you know it. It required thwarting.”

“It was hilarious. Besides, I thought it was a good job. I really put some effort into it, you know, angel? That bowl just won’t be the same.” As they step out into the cold night, Crowley heaves a great sigh, his breath rising in a cloud in front of him. “I wouldn’t have made her fire it, you know.”

“I do know,” Aziraphale concedes. “But she was coming over and I thought … well, I didn’t think, really. I mostly panicked.”

Crowley winces. “Perfectly awful.” He opens the passenger door for Aziraphale, and winces again when the angel pauses to kiss him on the cheek before sliding in. “Fat lot of good you are in awkward social situations.”

“That’s hardly a surprise, isn’t it?” He crosses his arms and huffs, but he cannot suppress the smile that is working its way onto his lips. “Are you going to drive this car or not? I was promised wine, a firepit, and cheap entertainment.”


	6. Sleigh Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Softest (tm)

The first time it snows after they've moved into the cottage, Crowley can’t resist remarking on it. Aziraphale is standing at one of the windows in the library, looking out over the back garden and the wide field beyond that runs along the cliffs, enjoying the sight of the land covered with a blanket of white, fluffy snow. “You know this kind of weather is highly unusual for this part of the country?” Crowley says, not looking up from whatever game he’s playing. “Snow hardly ever covers the ground this far south and this close to the sea, much less this much snow.”

“Hm. Must be something to do with climate change,” Aziraphale replies noncommittally. Crowley snorts. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you're saying.”

“Never said you did, angel.” 

“You inferred.”

“Mm, maybe I did.” 

There is quiet* for a short time, before Aziraphale sighs and asks, “Do you remember sleighs? Horse-drawn ones, that is.”

[*  _ For a given value of quiet: Crowley has one of his games running after all, and the periodic clacking of buttons and tinny music do off-set the mood somewhat. _ ]

“What, like the song? Suppose I do.” Aziraphale glances back to the demon and finds that he’s watching him with a smile on his face. Caught, Crowley looks back to his game and shrugs. “Never liked horses much, though.”

“I remember. They could be … well, there was just something about it, sometimes, though, don’t you think?”

“The cold, mostly, s’what I remember. Always cold, those things.”

The angel acknowledges this with a little hum of agreement, and then goes on. “Yes, but aside from that … I don’t know, I always thought there was something, well … nice about it.” He waves a hand to the landscape out the window. “Driving around, taking in the country, just you and the horse and the noise of the bells.” He shrugs. “I always found it rather peaceful, I suppose. And you could have all the blankets you wanted, against the cold.”

“Maybe,” Crowley allows. There is more clacking, and then he lays the game aside. Aziraphale turns to find him sprawled on the couch, hands folded on his belly, staring at the ceiling. “Would you like to go now?”

“What?” He puts his head to the side, brow furrowed, and points out the window. “What, a sleigh ride? Now? Crowley, it’s ten in the morning and we don’t have a horse. Or a sleigh.”

The demon unfolds himself to a standing position and stretches. “And we never will own a horse. But you’re wrong about the sleigh. Sort of. Come on, angel, get your coat.”

Bemused, Aziraphale watches Crowley walk from the library, before he sheds his cardigan and heads for the door. He debates taking a detour through the bedroom to pick up his tie, but forgoes it, instead leaving his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Crowley is already out the front door, shrugging into his own jacket, and Aziraphale hurries along behind him, wrapping up in a scarf and tugging his jacket into place before he steps outside. The door creaks shut after him, and he pauses on the front step for a moment to wriggle the buttons closed.

The Bentley is, as ever, parked in pride of place in the street in front of the house, pristine and free of snow in spite of the weather. Crowley is strolling around the front of it, black-gloved hand drifting over the metal of the bonnet. He’s probably talking to it, too, Aziraphale thinks, because he knows Crowley and he knows how Crowley feels about his car. The angel’s own face cracks into a soppy grin, which he does nothing to hide as he makes his way down the walk and to the car. Obligingly, Crowley holds the door open for him.

“Don’t tell me you know where to hire a horse-drawn sleigh.”

Crowley snorts. “Alright, no problem. Because I don’t.” He closes the door behind Aziraphale, and comes around the slide into the driver’s seat. Aziraphale notices as he sits down that, muffled but audible, he can hear jingling. He raises his eyebrows. With the door closed, the Bentley grumbles to life, and Crowley starts rooting around in a pocket.

“Crowley?”

“Hang on, it’s stuck.” He shifts a little, and then, with a triumphant ‘a-ha!’ pulls from his pocket an improbably long leather strap dotted with silver bells. He holds it out for Aziraphale’s inspection, beaming when the angel looks so very pleased with this development, and then hangs it from the rearview mirror. “There you are: it’s  _ very nearly _ the same thing,” Crowley explains. “You know, just minus the horse and with the crucial addition of a heater.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You spoil me, I think.”

“‘Course I do. Always have. Anywhere you want to go in particular?”

“Not really. It’ll be nice to just appreciate the view, I think.” Crowley nods in response to that, and pulls away from the curb; the snow didn’t quite manage to stick to the roads, and the lane cuts a damp gray ribbon through the clean white drifts all around. From the radio, Freddie Mercury, Brian May, and Roger Taylor begin to croon: ‘ _ Oh, won’t you take me home tonight, oh, down beside that red fire light _ …’

Crowley frowns at the radio. “None of that. Angel’s in the holiday spirit.” The radio sputters for a bit, crackles, and then, from non-existent speakers, the smoother tones of Queen’s Christmas album* start up. Aziraphale settles back in his seat and watches the country roll by outside. Absently, but conscious of his utter delight that he is able to do so, Aziraphale reaches over and takes Crowley’s hand in his, their fingers interlaced and resting next to the warm bulk of Aziraphale’s thigh. Hanging from the mirror, the bells jingle a little with every turn, acceleration, or bump in the road.

[*  _ The fact that Queen never recorded a full Christmas album does not ever occur to Aziraphale, Crowley, or the Bentley _ .]

“I thought,” says Crowley quietly after a while, “we could stop for lunch after a while? You skipped breakfast.”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale responds, equally softly, his entire face settling into a smile as they drive. The countryside outside, peaceful and quiet and coated with snow, is lovely. “Anywhere in particular?”

Crowley squeezes his hand a little. “Anywhere you want to go.”


	7. Silent Night

Warlock has been in Nanny’s bedroom before. Just a few times, when she’s needed to get something on their way from one thing to another, or when she’s had to fix her hair quickly, or her tie, or something. Point is, he knows where her bedroom is and so, on a night when he wakes in a cold sweat, chilly tear-tracks running from his eyes, he beats a path straight there without a second thought.

The door, he finds, is locked. He shivers in his little pajamas, and looks around. There’s a side-table in the hall, with a few little decorative pieces displayed on it. One of them is a deer skull, probably something from one of his father’s hunting trips, and Warlock considers it for a bare second before he picks it up, still sniffling, and starts trying to jimmy the lock with one of the prongs of the horns.

The house is quiet, and the scraping of bone on metal is thunderous, echoing down the hall, seeming all the louder in the chill of mid-winter. Warlock shivers a little, wishing he had had his socks on like Nanny told him before bed, but no time for that now. 

Certainly, he isn’t going back to his bedroom, anyway.

So intent is he on the lock - there must be a certain angle that he can stick the antler into the old keyhole, he thinks desperately - that he doesn’t notice the quiet padding of footsteps on the other side of the door. The antler catches, and Warlock cries out a little in happy triumph, but then the door swings open on its own.

No, not on its own. He whimpers, trying to keep from trembling, and looks up at his Nanny, deer skull that’s as big as his entire torso clutched in front of him like a shield. Nanny looks … different, he thinks, before his brain informs him that he has never seen her out of work clothes before. She is in pajamas (black, of course), her hair un-pinned and loose around her face and shoulders. She still, however, as always, has her glasses on.

“What’s all this about, then?” she says softly. “Breaking and entering with a skull?” She crouches down in front of him, and gently lifts the skull from his hands. “Very good, Warlock.”

He sniffles. “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep in your bed, Nanny?”

“Hm.” She is studying him. “Aren’t you a bit old for that, young man?”

Warlock is four and, when he considers her question, he doesn’t think he is. He tells her so.

“It was just a dream,” she replies, standing back up to put the skull back where it came from. “Nothing really to be afraid of. Come, back to bed with you.”

Her socks, Warlock thinks, look like snakeskin. By daylight, he might have found that interesting, but right now it just prompts another suppressed whimper. He shuffles around, and starts backing into her bedroom. “No,” he says. He tilts his chin up defiantly, and then spoils the effect by sticking his thumb into his mouth to try to soothe himself. Nanny pauses.

“Warlock, you know what your mother says about sucking your thumb.” Nanny bends down again, as if to pick him up, and he scrambles backwards, out of reach, away from her and into the perceived safety of her bed, burrowing under the thick black duvet as quickly as he can until it’s completely dark, and quiet, and he’s wrapped in the soft blanket and the reassuring bonfire smell of his Nanny. He starts to whimper again, nearly crying, because he knows this is for naught: Nanny will pick him up and carry him back to his room and tell him to go to sleep and  _ yes _ , she might stay with him until he falls asleep, but then he’ll be alone in his room again and -

The mattress sinks down beside him. She is sitting next to him and, gently, she lifts the duvet up to let the meager gray light in. She doesn’t look pleased but, he realizes, she also doesn’t look angry. “What frightened you so much, little imp?”

“Bad dream,” he repeats, shrinking back further under the duvet. She doesn’t respond, so he sniffles and steels himself and goes on: “There was a great big monster - a crab, I think, or a big man running like a crab? - an’ it was all red an’ yelling an’ chasing me an’ I couldn’t get away -” he is crying again, and Nanny casts the duvet aside to pull him close, her fingers running through his hair. “An’ it kept chasing me, an’ I kept running but I couldn’t get away an’ then there was a cliff and I  _ fell _ .” He all but wails the last part, and Nanny shushes him as he wraps his arms around her and twists his little hands into the softness of her pajamas. 

She rubs his hair and his back as he cries, and lets him take some deep breaths, all the while murmuring to him that it’s alright, it was all a dream, nothing like that exists in the world, and he is safe now. His tears dry up, eventually, and his hitching sobs calm to shaky little breaths, and he is still with his Nanny, crawled into her lap now, one corner of her duvet still clutched in his hands. He is sucking on it, a comfort, and if Nanny disapproves she doesn’t say anything about it.

Slowly, silence returns. Outside, the sky is dark and cold, the two or three visible stars glimmering distantly in the washed-out blackness polluted by London’s lights. He rests his head on Nanny’s bony shoulder, and breathes. 

Years later, when Warlock Dowling is a tall, lively teenager living in America and going by ‘Lucky’, he won’t remember most of this: he is, after all, human, and Crowley and Aziraphale have a way of making humans forget them. But even so, he will always feel safe and at home when he is near a campfire: the smell, and the warmth, and the quiet will stir his childhood memories and soothe him better than any duvet corner ever could. 

Now, though, still four years old and small enough to fit in his Nanny’s lap, he heaves a sigh as she shifts positions, and whines again. She is going to take him back to bed, leave him alone again, tell him it’s all just a dream.

Instead, she settles him on the pillows, carefully extricates herself from his grasp, and covers him with the duvet. He blinks, struggling to keep his eyes open through the sudden feeling of exhaustion, and she does that little almost-smile she does, running her hand over his hair once more. “I suppose it was a scary dream: one night won’t hurt.”

It occurs to him that she might just switch, and sleep in his bed instead, leaving him here. That is … better, he supposes, but still … “You won’t leave?” 

“No, imp.” At the foot of the bed, folded up, there is a large, wooly, tartan throw: Warlock has noticed it before, mostly because its soft dun color contrasts so sharply with the rest of the dark linens in Nanny’s room. Now, Nanny reaches for it and wraps it around herself, before she lays down next to him. She is on top of the duvet, but he snuggles up against her anyway, his button nose pressed against her shoulder. “No, I’ll be right here. Now, go to sleep, and dream of whatever you like best.”

“Okay,” he says, before he settles in, in the dark and silent night, safe by his Nanny, and drops off into a sound sleep, and a wonderful dream.


	8. Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of wing trauma

The first time Aziraphale heard Crowley sing was in the 10th century, right around the birth of the Arrangement. It is not surprising that he would have: they lived together for a decade or so around that time, and after the first few tense years the nights started to fill up with stargazing and drinking (so much drinking, more then than now, but they were younger then), and talking and laughing and, on a few occasions, singing.

Thing is, Crowley is a horrible singer: he is always off-key and reaching for un-reachable notes. He was an angel once, Aziraphale thought the first time he heard Crowley sing. He was an angel once, with whole white wings and a voice to sing God’s glory. He is a demon now, and those things are taken from him. His wings are broken and flightless, his Grace is gone, and his voice is a mangled affront to the angelic Choir to which he once belonged. Eventually, he hears Crowley sing many more times through the years - his skill at it, or lack thereof, does not seem to dampen his enthusiasm at all - and as time goes on and they become something besides hereditary enemies, it always makes Aziraphale feel profoundly sad. More than the wings, because Crowley has come to love them and take pride in them, no matter their state. He likes to sing, but Aziraphale gets the sense that he knows his singing is bad, and he is not proud of his voice, but he does it anyway, because he enjoys it.

It is not until after their narrow escape from the End of All Things that Aziraphale asks about it, in a roundabout sort of way. It’s the first Christmas after, and they are in the bookshop, Aziraphale in his customary seat, bundled up in a new cardigan Crowley bought him for the holiday (“your first twenty-first century piece of clothing, I’m so proud,” the demon simpered between chuckles) and Crowley slumped on the sofa, blanketed from the waist down in whatever throws and afghans he could rustle up around the shop. For the occasion, Aziraphale has a record of the Choir of Trinity College’s Christmas carols playing softly. 

They are singing ‘Jingle Bells’. It’s not Aziraphale’s favorite song, but they’re about four bottles in, and he starts to hum along with the melody during a lull in conversation. Crowley is studying his wine glass, silently nodding along (slightly off-tempo), until the chorus starts again, at which point he joins in. As always, he is loud and undeniably terrible, and Aziraphale winces, quite in spite of himself.

Crowley notices, and stops, breaking into a wide, toothy grin. “Don’t like my singing, angel?”

Mentally, Aziraphale curses himself. He hadn’t meant for Crowley to notice, hadn’t meant to wince at all, and he certainly doesn’t want to spoil the moment by insulting the demon. This is a new thing, the two of them really,  _ actually _ relaxing together, and he revels in it. This is their first proper Christmas together too: neither one of them is working to sow peace or to foment, and so far he has been enjoying it tremendously. It would be a shame to ruin it all because of a careless gesture.

“I … Well, it’s just that, er …”

“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket?” Crowley suggests cheerfully, downing another swig of wine. “I sound like four cats being strangled in an empty rain barrel? Or - oh, what was the other one, shit, hang on - oh! I make a barn owl sound like La Rochois?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Someone  _ said  _ that to you?”

“Well, not one person, just a collection I’ve heard through the years.” He snickers. “I think it was Raphael told me God must have heard my singing and decided to base elk calls on it.”

“That’s very unkind,” Aziraphale replies, scandalized. And then he freezes. “Hang on - did you say Raphael? Archangel Raphael?”

“No, angel, the ninja turtle.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “ _ Yes _ , that Raphael.”

He stammers for a moment. “But … but I thought - that was before you Fell, then? I thought -”

Crowley’s eyes widen with realization, and he starts to laugh. “Oh, angel. Thought I lost my voice in the Fall, did you?” He laughs harder then, and Aziraphale joins in, rather more awkwardly but incredibly relieved that he has garnered this reaction instead of any of the alternatives. “Oh, angel. You know, not  _ everything _ has to do with me being a demon. Some things are just … me.”

The laughter goes on for another minute or so until it dies away, Aziraphale and Crowley watching each other across the table, Crowley with his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand, still smiling, and Aziraphale with a bashful look on his face. “I did,” he admits in the ensuing quiet. “Well, I just thought … your wings, and Grace, and I just assumed.”

“I mean, I guess it’s a reasonable assumption to make.” Crowley takes another sip of wine. “But no, always been like this, since day one.” He raises an eyebrow. “Not every angel is made for singing in the Heavenly Choir like you seraphs and principalities and cherubs, you know.”

“I suppose not.” He hazards, “Still …”

Crowley admits, “Suppose I was a bit worse than most, though. Why’d you think they stuck me out in the middle of space?”

Aziraphale stumbles again. “I - Well, I just thought, since you made such beautiful nebulas and stars.” It gives him a little flutter in his belly when Crowley blushes at that.

“Nah, they weren’t that good.” He tops his glass off, red wine sloshing into the vessel lazily, and takes yet another sip. “Nice of you to say, though. But no, they stuck me out there because I was obnoxious.” He beams at Aziraphale. “Changed a lot, have I?”

This is a trap, Aziraphale thinks. Maybe. Or maybe Crowley is just in a good mood, and having a gentle poke at Aziraphale’s expense. Still, better safe, and he shrugs. “Must have done. I don’t find you obnoxious at all.”

“You  _ do _ .” Crowley snickers. “You know angels aren’t supposed to lie, angel.”

Aziraphel smirks. “Fortunate that I’m retired then, isn’t it? And it’s  _ not _ a lie, I  _ don’t _ find you obnoxious at all.” He pauses. “Well, sometimes. But you really do have to put quite a lot of effort into it to reach that point.”

“ _ Aw _ .” Crowley turns away, sliding back down into the cushions of the sofa and the blankets, his wineglass raised. “I shall have to try harder, then.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Please don’t.”

The record on the gramophone spins, and ‘Carol of the Bells’ starts up. He closes his eyes for a minute, his chest suddenly lighter, a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying lifted away, and then he winces, because Crowley has started to sing along.

“ _ One seems to hear words of good cheer from over there, filling the air, blah in your eyes, we sing a song, for caroling, bells do a ring _ -” he sings, growing increasingly louder with every mis-heard lyric.

“You don’t even know the words!” Aziraphale shouts indignantly, voice raised to be heard. “ _ Crowley _ !”

“ _ Christmas is here! Merry merry merry merry Christmas, merry merry merry merry Chrysler _ -”

“I know you know that’s not right!” He glances around at the table to his right, strewn with books and wine bottles, and his eyes fall upon his bowtie, laid aside in the name of comfort. He sets his glass down, the better to ball the tie up and pitch it at Crowley’s head. “Damnable demon!”

Crowley laughs again, the tartan bowtie draped over his head, nested in his hair and drooping into his eyes, his sides shaking with giggles, and he raises his glass to his angel. “Still don’t find me obnoxious?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, heaves a great sigh, and says, as if long-suffering rather than thrilled - and happy, light, so light - to be having this moment right now. “Perhaps a bit.” He takes a sip of wine, and allows himself a soft little smile. “Nevertheless, I do love you, dear boy.”

“Er.” Crowley blushes, and takes refuge behind his glass. “Ah. Aziraphale, come on, you know it’s, er.” He swallows a mouthful of red wine and mumbles, “You know I don’t do well with that kind of thing.”

“Hm?” He smiles. “Sorry, Crowley, didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said,” Crowley says, voice raised, cheeks flushed nearly as red as his cabernet, “I love you too, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise twist: crowley's just really bad at singing, and it has nothing to do with him being a demon.


	9. Chestnuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fell asleep while i was proofreading this so good luck i didn't finish

The cottage at South Downs is, after a few years, wired for sound. Initially, when they moved in, Aziraphale had kept his gramophone, and Crowley had kept his stereo (which didn’t have speakers, not that anybody noticed). Then, Aziraphale had bought Crowley a portable speaker, after getting tired of the complaints about the poor sound in the greenhouse. That worked, for a while, but after a decade or so of the cottage’s angelic and demonic possession, a comprehensive surround sound system had sort of … independently materialized. Speakers were never installed, wiring was never threaded through the walls and yet, somehow, the sound from either the stereo (which had been, since they had moved in, updated about five times) or the gramophone (which had been updated exactly 0 times) plays clear and smooth in every room in the house. 

They are taking advantage of this tonight, the two of them snuggled onto the couch together. They’d spent a few minutes angling the couch to face the fireplace rather than the TV, resulting in only one stubbed toe and one scratch on the hardwood, and are enjoying the rewards of their labors, Crowley under a blanket with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thigh, while the angel reads his latest book and combs his fingers through the demon’s hair, lulling Crowley into a light doze. 

Through the non-existent speakers, the mellow tones of Nat King Cole begin to play. “ _ Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose _ …”

“Funny song, this,” Crowley says, his voice thick with sleep. 

Aziraphale glances up from his text, and finds Crowley’s eyes only half-open and unfocused, watching the fireplace. “Hm?”

“Song.” He points lazily to the ceiling, finger waggling vaguely. “Got weird lyrics. It’s discriminatory, I think.”

That really grabs his attention, and Aziraphale closes his book, his finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. “Discriminatory?” He frowns. “Crowley, dear,  _ please _ explain how a song about holiday cooking is discriminatory. I … I suppose the word ‘Eskimo’ is viewed as rather insensitive these days, but I’m not sure that qualifies the song as discriminatory.”

“It’s discriminatory,” he repeats with sleepy confidence, “against the elderly.”

“ _ What _ ?”

Crowley doesn’t respond, just points his finger toward the ceiling again while Nat croons, “ _ And so I’m offering a simple phrase, for kids from 1 to 92, although it’s been said many times many ways - _ ”

“Only extends to people aged 1 to 92. I suppose it’s discriminatory against infants as well, then,” Crowley explained, letting his eyes droop shut again. “That includes us.”

“We’re not  _ elderly _ .”

“Nah. We’re ancient.”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I suppose in the literal sense, yes, but I don’t look ancient. Nor do you.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley wriggles around, the better to fix the angel with a level, bemused stare. “You are  _ at minimum _ 6026 years old.  _ At minimum _ . And that’s just since time was invented.”

“You are too!”

“Yeah, I am too. What I’m saying is, if that’s not old, I don’t know what is.”

“Yes, dear, but we don’t  _ look it _ , is what I’m saying. Gosh, can you imagine if we looked our ages? No. We’re not ancient, we’re timeless.”

Crowley snorts. “My point is,” he says, amused, “that Nat King Cole is discriminating ‘gainst infants, and people over 92. Which includes me. I’m kind of insulted.”

“I don’t think he was thinking about timeless supernatural beings when he wrote the song, Crowley.”

“Or what about humans!” Crowley pointed out, indignantly. “Humans live past 92! Look at Adam’s gran - she’s 96 and still going strong!”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure  _ Adam’s _ gran is a good example.”

“Well, whatever,” Crowley grumbles with a dismissive wave. “Loads of other people live past 92. Methusaleh? Or what about Sarah and Abraham? They had a  _ kid _ . She was 90 and they had a  _ kid _ .”

“Those are all humans with clear divine connections.” He shrugs. “They don’t count.”

Crowley bristles.”Who  _ said _ ? Fine. How about Nancy? No infernal or divine intervention there, and she’s 94. S’discriminatory against Nancy, too.”

“Poor Nancy.” Aziraphale soothes, running his hand through Crowley’s hair and smiling when Crowley’s eyes drift shut, predictably. “I think it was just … well, I don’t think it was to be taken literally, in any case. It probably just worked well for the rhyme scheme.”

Crowley scoffs. “Amateurs. Will would be rolling in his grave if he knew that’s what writing has come to.”

“As if he never made up nonsense words to fit a rhyme.” Aziraphale shakes his head, and opens his book again. By all appearances, Crowley drifts off again, but he cracks one eye when Aziraphale says, “I just can’t think of another number that would fit the rhyme and would be  _ older _ than 92.”

“Why not just say another number that rhymes with ‘two’,” Crowley suggests, rolling back onto his side and closing his eyes. The song has ended by now, and Michael Buble is singing and begging his beloved to return home for the holidays. 

Aziraphale closes the book once more. “It’d have to have three syllables. The song has room for three syllables.”

“Well, if you say one-oh-two … Or two-oh-two? That would definitely include most humans.”

“It doesn’t fit the mood of the song, really. It doesn’t seem formal enough. Besides,” he adds with a mischievous smile, “it still doesn’t include timeless supernatural beings.”

“Yeah, but even I’ll admit 6024 doesn’t roll off the tongue.” He makes a few grumbling little noises, perhaps out of a sense of grudging agreement. “He probably didn’t think to include ancient supernatural eldritch horrors.”

“Ancient superna - Crowley, it’s hardly as though either one of us is Cthulhu. Supernatural horrors seems a bit over-the-top.”

“Alright, Eyeballs.” He winces when Aziraphale pinches his ear. “ _ Oy _ .”

“Serves you right,” says Aziraphale primly. He opens his book and settles back, bouncing his leg to rearrange Crowley into a more comfortable position. “Making fun of my eyeballs. Rude.”

Crowley sighs. “Sorry,” he says, doing his best to give off an impression of great remorse. It is not particularly convincing. “If it helps, they’re rather attractive eyeballs.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” Aziraphale says quietly, smiling and beginning to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair again. He considers another remark, something to give him the last word, but after a moment, Crowley’s gentle snoring drones over the crackling of the fireplace, and Aziraphale decides to let it go.


	10. Gold and Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley Gets Brave. Outsider POV.

Saja is fairly certain that the “man” she has spent the past hour helping is not entirely human. She has come to that conclusion in the space of that hour and now, with the end of the transaction in sight, she is feeling both tremendously relieved that she’ll soon be seeing the back of him, and devilishly curious about what, if not human, he  _ is _ . 

She wonders if the checkout register is an appropriate place to ask. They will be discussing money at that time after all, a sensitive subject to be sure, and how much more sensitive could it get? Surely checking to see if someone is a dragon in human disguise, or a fae, or any other manner of supernatural creatures isn’t  _ that _ much more awkward.

Or maybe it is. She reconsiders, and smiles politely instead.

Oh, it had started normally enough: she had been standing behind the cases of jewelry, watching the rain drizzle down outside the shop while she waited for a customer, and had just been debating making a cup of tea when a huge, old black car pulled up outside of the shop and parked along the curb. Strange, she thought - she had been sure there’d never been a parking spot there before because of the fire codes or something, but she must have been mistaken, because there was a meter there sure as life, and when the driver got out of the car, he waved his phone in front of it to pay. Must have one of those wireless mobile payment apps, she thought, and then he came in.

The customer was - is,  _ is _ , he’s still here - a tall, thin man with dark red hair, all in black, with sunglasses on. It had taken her all of three milliseconds to deduct what he’d come in for: hands in his pockets, feet shuffling left-to-right as his jaw worked and he chewed over what he was trying to say.

An engagement ring. The nerves, coming in alone, the way he’d gaped at her for a full fifteen seconds before forcing out a rather strangled “Hi” was a dead give-away.

“Hi,” she’d said, careful to keep her smile easy and relaxed, so as not to startle him off. “Can I help you with anything?"

Then things had started to get weird.

It didn’t seem too weird at first. The man - man-shaped creature, anyway - stammered for a minute, each sound almost congealing into a word before dying off into choked-off whines, and then managed to force out “Looking for a ring.”

Saja had nodded encouragingly. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but would this be a ring for a -”

“Wedding!” And he’d jumped then, as if startled by his own voice. “Yeah!” His glasses had slid down his nose a little, and Saja caught a glimpse of his eyes - yellow eyes? - before he shoved them back up his nose like every practiced nerd she’d ever met. “Er,” he’d said, a little less urgently, “Yesss.”

The hiss really should have been the first big clue. First hiss, first clue. But no, she’d thought, he was just another nervous customer in to buy an engagement ring. She’d nodded again, and walked to another case, carefully staying behind the glass, and motioned for him to follow. “Is there anything in particular you had in mind?” she’d asked, and when he leaned his hands onto the case she’d noticed the white-knuckled grip.

_ Very nervous _ , she’d thought. 

“Not sure. Not too much like his other one, I suppose.” He’d blanched. “Ah, that isss, the one he wearsss now. Not a wedding ring. Jusst … a gold ring.” He’d pushed his glasses up again, although they hadn’t fallen down at all.

“Does he like gold?”

“Yeah. But …” His hands had drifted up to his t-shirt, and the loose silver chain that hung against his chest. He had fiddled with the links for a minute while he studied the rings, although Saja got the distinct impression that he wasn’t studying them so much as staring blankly at the case in blind panic. “S’already got a gold ring, doesn’t he?”

“I see.” She had tapped the top of the case, a corner devoted to white gold and silver. “If you’re looking for something a bit different, these are classical, but twist it a bit with the white gold or silver material. We also have tungsten and titanium, which are very popular at the moment.

“ _ Tungsten _ ?” He’d scoffed at the idea of it. “What, a ceramic ring? Nah.” She had nodded - it wasn’t the first time she’d heard the sentiment - and watched as he’d leaned over the case to get a better look. A  _ very _ close look, really, and for the first time since he’d walked in she wondered if the sunglasses were more than just a fashion statement. “What about an alloy?” He’d looked up. “Titanium and white gold?”

“We have several.” She’d indicated a certain collection of rings. “Would you like a closer look?”

“... Yeah, I think.” She’d obliged, and removed one of the rings at random - a simple band, no jewels or ornamentation. She always liked to start with something like that, let the customer feel the heft and the texture of it without being distracted by glitz, before moving on to more elaborate pieces if they so desired. He’d taken it almost reverently, and she noticed that he was trying very hard not to let his hand shake as he held the ring, running his fingers over it, possibly to better gauge the way it would feel, the size, who knew? She’d glanced at his face only to find his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue sticking out slightly. As if he’d sensed her looking, closed his mouth rather abruptly, although a few seconds later she saw the tip of his tongue poking out again. It almost looked … forked? But no, that couldn’t be right, and when she’d looked again, his mouth was closed.

A very strange man, certainly. But she’d seen stranger. Or, at least at that point, she  _ had _ .

“Nice enough metal, I suppose,” he’d said, handing the ring back. “But, er … maybe something more, um, decorated?”

“Yes, of course.” She had tucked the ring carefully back into its place and glanced up at him. “Now, please know that my sister is our jeweler, and is able to custom-make pieces if nothing available is quite what you had in mind. Would you like the same metal, or would you like to try plain white gold?”

“I … uh, I’m not sssure, really.” He’d rubbed the back of his neck. “I … I think the alloy, though. Strong but still gold, right? Suitsss him.”

She had smiled as she’d considered the other rings available that were of his metal preferences. “I can tell you’re very fond of him. What’s his name?”

“Aziraphale.” And then he’d squeaked, his grip on the case re-doubling. “Ezra! Fell. Ezra Fell.”

The name rang a bell, although she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it right at that moment. “Ezra. What a lovely name. What sort of things does he like? Or,” she’d said, her hand hovering above a ring with a fiddly little braid worked around the band (she’d remembered Taslima complaining about it for weeks), “what sorts of things do you like to do together?”

“Hm? Well he likes books,” and she had tried not to smile with self-satisfaction when the nervous quiver in his voice died away, replaced with confidence and fondness as he talked about his chosen person. She always loved when she heard that. “And food, and classical music, and outdated clothes. And feeding the ducks in St. James’.” While he’d talked, she’d handed him the braided ring, and he’d studied it, bringing it up close to his glasses for a better look. “It’s nice,” he’d said, doubtfully, “but maybe a bit … too much. He prefers things a little simpler. Fancy, but not ostentatious.”

“Hm. Alright.” She’d replaced the ring and asked, as she trailed her fingers over the others, “How long have you known each other Mr. … ?”

“Crowley.” His tone was distracted and distant as he stared into the case while she worked, left hand resting on top of the glass just over the rings, fingers twitching a little. Nervous, again, she’d thought. “And about 6000 years, give or take.”

She’d laughed. “That’s quite a long time. 6000 years?”

He’d looked up sharply, panicked again. “Did I ssay ssix thousssand? I meant sssix. Jussst … ssix.”

_ Hissing _ , she’d thought. Not like a speech impediment, or at least like any one she had ever heard, but actual honest  _ hissing _ . Like a snake. A part of her brain, the part that remembered  _ yellow eyes _ and  _ forked tongue _ desperately tried to get her attention, but the other, larger parts of her brain that insisted such a thing was not possible stuffed a paper bag over its head and pushed it back into the closet of her subconscious before it could gain too much traction. “That’s a very long time,” she’d said, selecting another ring. “How about this one? The woven motif adds interest, but it’s simpler than the braid.”

He’d run his fingers over the geometric basket-weave pattern worked into the metal, and considered it up-close again. “Getting warmer, I think. But still not … jusst not quite right.”

“Alright.” She’d put the ring back again. “Would you like to look at any with jewels, maybe?”

“Nah, thanksss. Not his sstyle.” His hands back in his pockets, he’d rocked from foot-to-foot for a while.

“How did you meet?” she’d asked, in the ensuing silence, as she looked over the displayed alloy rings. It wasn’t a large selection - pure gold was and always had been more popular - and she was wondering if he would place a custom order. 

“Work. Uh. Security detail. Him, anyway. I was … trying to sneak in and steal company secretsss.”

_ Weirder _ . She’d looked up, mouth open a little, eyes wide, and blinked a few times. “Really?”

A shrug. “Yeah. Neither of us work for thossse placess anymore, though. Good riddance.” He’d swallowed, and she’d heard him click the fingers of his left hand together, a nervous gesture, probably, she’d thought, before he’d tapped the case. “What’s that one? Could I, er, ssee that one?”

“The one with the - oh.” She’d cocked her head. “Huh. I … I don’t remember that one. I don’t remember Taslima  _ making _ that one. I could have sworn this one was just woven with a braid ...” She had reached in gingerly, and plucked from the display a white-gold titanium alloy ring, irregularly shaped into the form of a coiled serpent all wrapped around itself. The top of the ring had been ornamented a bit more, little scales worked into the metal, with the tail of the serpent shaped into a setting for a stone. It was a ruby, actually, red and lustrous in the light of the shop, and Saja frowned. “I don’t remember this ring at all.”

“Hm.” He’d picked it from her fingers and, as before, studied it. 

“It does have the ruby -”

“I’ll take it.”

“Oh?” She’d met his eyes - or probably his eyes, with the glasses it was quite hard to tell - and blinked, her own eyes wide with surprise. “Does he fancy snakes?” she’d asked, rather indelicately, mostly because she was too surprised to think of anything else.

“One of ‘em, anyway. Yeah. This is the one.” He’d handed it back to her, and stuffed his hands into his pockets once more. “How much?”

“Well, if you’ll just, um …” she had tried not to look too hard at the ring, as the part of her brain that remembered  _ yellow eyes _ , and  _ forked tongue _ , and  _ hissing _ forced its way out of the closet and started jumping up and down rather urgently in the forefront of her consciousness. “Sorry, just follow me to the register.”

Which brings her up to the present, in which she is  _ certain _ that he is probably not human. Forked tongue, yellow eyes, hissing, mysterious ring she has no recollection of ever being in the shop, her brain repeats like a mantra. She places the ring on the worktable by the register, and makes a little show of studying it under the magnifying glass.

This makes the man - Crowley - nervous. “Ssomething wrong?” and there it is again, the hiss.

_ Probably a speech impediment _ , one part of her brain insists, while the part that is gaining more ground by the second yells back,  _ Not bloody likely _ ! She does not, of course, say any of this, and smiles at him instead, before she adjusts the lens and peers through it. “Not at all,” she says, as her free hand worries at the hem of her hijab. She studies the ring, a brief moment of calm in which the part of her that is always professional takes over, and no, it’s Taslima’s work for certain: her maker’s mark is there, just under the stone, engraved in the metal. “Just ensuring everything looks to be in order. Of course, there is a lifetime warranty in the event of any damage in the course of routine wear. Will you be insuring it?”

He pauses. “Why?”

She cocks her head. “Well,” she says slowly, “sometimes in the event that someone loses their rings, insuring the piece can -”

“He won’t lossse it.”

It is best, she decides, to just let that go. “Alright. In any case, it’s a lovely ring - an excellent choice.” She turns away for a moment to pick out a box. “Would you like it wrapped?” When she turns back around, she can see his nerves are back again in full force, and his glasses are fixed on the little black velvet box in her hand as if it might suddenly explode. “Or a bit of ribbon, or anything?”

“It’s … nngh. Fine like that, thanksss.” 

She nods and places the box down on the counter gingerly, like a sudden movement might startle him away. “Okay. Very traditional. And how would you like to pay for this, Mr. Crowley?”

He makes another noise, possibly of distress or surprise, or maybe just a noise created by bottled-up stress trying to escape. “Cash,” and his voice cracks as he says it.

“Cash?” She arranges her expression carefully and does not look surprised. His suit is black, sleek, with modern lines and not a single functional pocket. Even his cell phone doesn’t quite fit, sticking out of the left-hand jacket pocket just enough to be seen. There doesn’t look like there’s anywhere he could possibly store a wallet, or a roll of cash.  _ Perhaps _ , part of her brain says placidly,  _ he will just materialize it out of nowhere _ . She doesn’t shake her head, and instead says calmly, “We require full payment up front for cash payments.”

“Undersstood. How much?”

She licks her lips and swallows. She has no idea how much: she is relatively certain that this man-shaped person materialized the ring in her shop a few minutes ago, and therefore it was likely never assigned a price. Still, she has been a jeweler for years now, and she  _ did _ look at the thing under the lens … “£900.”

“Alright,” he says and yes, seemingly out of nowhere he produces a roll of bills which she knows, in her soul, will total exactly the amount quoted. He makes a show of counting them anyway, before handing them all over. “Should be it. Er. Can I have it now?”

She doesn’t answer right away, instead double-checking the cash count - exactly right, as predicted - and then safely locking it away in the register. She then pulls a sale form from the drawer in the desk and begins to fill it out, although privately she wonders  _ what _ she’s going to write, exactly, for ‘miraculously materialized ring’. “Now my sister’s mark is engraved into the band, so if there is ever a problem you’ll just need to bring it back here and we can take care of it under the warranty. We also offer cleanings. Could you just fill out your name and address, and then sign here, please?”

He looks a little stymied by this administrative complication, but he takes the pen anyway, leaning in so close to the paper to write that it’s a wonder he doesn’t get ink on his nose. Saja pretends not to notice, and says instead, “I’m sure he’ll like it very much. I can tell you and Mr. … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten his na -”

“Fell,” Crowley says, laboriously writing out a Mayfair address, which Saja felt explained a great many things, although not quite all of them.

“Fell,” she repeats and then - finally - the part of her brain that had been screaming yellow eyes, forked tongue, hissing, over and over again screams into the whole of her consciousness,  _ AZ FELL AND CO., EST. 1800. _ “Oh,” she says, faintly.

AZ Fell. AZ Fell, the man on the corner who never changes, never ages, and never sells a book. AZ Fell, who talks like someone out of a Dickens novel and dresses like it, too. AZ Fell, who is kind to everyone he meets and is well-loved and adored by the other shopkeepers in the area, and around whom nothing bad ever happens. He emits a field of safety, of predictability, of love.

AZ Fell who, she has heard since she and Taslima opened their shop here in Soho twenty years ago, is probably either the latest in a long line of men who look  _ exactly alike _ , or - the leading theory amongst neighbors, and shared by Saja and her sister - an immortal cryptid who guards Soho and looks kindly upon all that show decency, compassion, and respect.

This man - this Crowley - is going to marry  _ that _ AZ Fell. Which means, Saja realizes, this Mr. Crowley is probably  _ definitely _ not human.

_ Told you so _ , says the part of her brain that had to this point been doing all the cryptid-related heavy lifting, before settling back to gloat in silence. 

It takes her a minute to realize Crowley had spoken. “Sorry?” she asks, shaken, while he finishes the sales form with a flourished signature. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

“I asked if you know him,” Crowley says, setting the pen aside and then, reverently, picking up the little box. Saja makes no move to stop him. The form is complete, and at this point, even if it wasn’t, she’s hardly in a state to stop whatever Mr. Crowley is from doing as he pleases. He cracks the lid of the box open, and then with shaking hands snaps it shut again.

“A bit,” she says. She wets her lips, which have suddenly become very, very dry. “Sort of socially - all us shopkeepers do, I suppose. He seems a very nice man.”

“He is.” Crowley’s expression softens, just for a second, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “He really is.” With great care, he tucks the little box into his right jacket pocket, and pats the pocket a few times, just to ensure it’s safe. “Now I jusst … jussst have to figure out how to asssk him.”

Aha, she thinks. She knows this one. “Be yourself,” she says with confidence. “The best thing you can ever do is be yourself. Whether it’s a grand gesture or a private moment, it’s always best to be yourself.”

Crowley laughs nervously. “Might work if I weren’t, well, myself. Don’t think you know myself particularly well … er?”

“Saja.” She shakes her head. “And I’ve heard that before, so I ask you: you said you’ve known each other for 6000 years?”

“Nnnuuugh, bit of, er, bit of a joke that, ha ha, really kind of an inside thing, it’s actually been -”

“If he has known you for that long,” she says, bravely cutting him off and trying not to think of the possible implications of that, “then he knows you.  _ Yourself _ . So if he still loves you enough that you think you’ve got a shot at him marrying you, then that is the most crucial part.”

She cannot see his eyes with the glasses, but based on the quirk of the eyebrow and the few beats of silence, she imagines he might be blinking at her. She’ll never be certain but it seems right. “Yeah,” he says at length. “Yeah, you know? You’re probably right. Probably definitely.”

She leans forward onto the counter, her hands folded and says, earnestly, “ _ Definitely _ definitely. Good luck, Mr. Crowley. Please do stop by after, the both of you; I’d love to hear the story.”

“Okay. I …  _ we’ll _ do that. We will. Thanks, Ms Saja.” He extends a hand and she shakes it. Dry and soft like snakeskin, and cold as ice. She ignores it. “Really. Thankssss.”

“Good luck,” she repeats, before he turns for the door and heads into the rain, sliding into the big black car - of  _ course _ she’d recognized it, it’s always parked in front of Fell’s shop - and disappears from view in a roar of the engine and a cloud of fumes. 

She waits for a minute, and then, calmly, her hands shaking the whole time, turns away to make herself a cup of tea. She carries it into the workshop, only sloshing a little as she goes, before she sits down across from her sister, busy at the workbench.

Taslima doesn’t look up. “Sell something, did you?” the jeweler asks, trying to hide the interest and excitement in her voice. “Which piece?”

“Well.” Saja takes a sip of tea. “That’s the funny thing, really. I don’t really remember ever seeing it before. Did you ever make a white gold and titanium ring in the shape of a snake? With a ruby wrapped in its tail? It had your mark on it.”

“I … no, not that I can recall.” She looks confused. “But it had my mark? Then I must have done some time, musn’t I?”

“Must have,” Saja agrees. “Anyway, I sold it. To - get this - a man named Mr. Crowley, who intends to give it to his beloved.”

“Who is?” Taslima asks, catching the glint in her sister’s eye. 

Saja smiles into her teacup. “Mr. AZ Fell.”

“ _ What _ ?” Taslima sets her tool down with a snap of metal on the wooden tabletop, and lays her hands flat on either side of her work. “The cryptid on the corner? When did  _ that _ happen?”

“6000 years ago, apparently.”

“Six thou -  _ no _ . That’s a joke, it has to be.”

“Has to be,” Saja agrees solemnly. “And yet I don’t think it is.”

Taslima thinks that over, face slack and eyes fixed, un-seeing, on the top of her worktable. “Yeah,” she says faintly, after a few deep breaths and a minute to process. “You know? Me neither.”


	11. Pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little behind schedule and definitely un-edited because I'm traveling but here it is!

In the living room of Jasmine Cottage, there is a beautiful Christmas tree. Adorned with tinsel and ornaments, strung with lights, and smelling of fresh pine, it is a sight to behold, and Crowley says so when he meets Anathema for their now well-established traditional movie night. 

“S’it real?” he asks, stalking around the thing and letting his free hand drift across the boughs. She acts like she didn’t see him scent the air earlier, and says instead, “What, doesn’t it smell real enough? The entire cottage smells like a forest.” She sips her wine. “Might be turning into one too - I found a spider on the wall by it earlier today.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll happen.” He completes his circuit around the tree and starts another, this time pausing to examine particular ornaments. “Did you cut it down or buy it at one of those lots?”

“Newt and the Them went and cut it down. It’s a funny story, actually.”

“Is it?” Crowley raises an eyebrow, and the little popsicle-stick Star of David he is holding drops from his fingers, swinging from the tree and its yarn hanger. “Do tell.”

“Well ....” She giggles, and takes a sip of her wine, steeling herself. “So, he went and got it yesterday.”

“ _ Yesterday _ ? It was bloody sleeting yesterday!”

“Sure was. And Newt and the Them decided it was the perfect day to take a trip to the tree farm and cut down a tree.” Crowley is staring at her. “Don’t look at me - I convinced them I needed to stay here and get the rest of the decorations down out of the attic. You know, Adam was going to call you two and see if you wanted to come?”

Crowley laughs. “Oh, come on, he knows me better than that.”

“He likes you to feel included. But yeah, I told him you’d be asleep and the chances of getting you out to tramp around in the woods in the sleet were less than zero. You’re welcome.” She sits back and budges over for Crowley, who finishes his inspection of the ornaments and saunters over the couch. He flops onto the seat next to her and stretches out his legs with a satisfied grunt. “Anyway, so off they went into the sleet in Dick Turpin, the five of them. There’s a tree farm down to the west outside of town a little, where they’ll loan you a handsaw and you can pick and cut your own tree.”

“What, they just  _ give out _ saws to members of the public? They gave a saw to  _ Newt _ ?”

Anathema nods. “They gave a saw to Newt,” she says solemnly, voice low. “Checked that he’s over eighteen and then just handed it over. Apparently, the man working the counter  _ told _ them where to go to get trees; it was like up a path and around to the right, or something, past a greenhouse, but I guess Newt wasn’t paying attention -”

“Uh oh.”

“I mean, you know how he is with directions, and there was a model train set so the kids were long gone.”

Crowley takes a second look at the tree. She can tell he’s studying it: what’s wrong? She’s certainly setting the story up like there ought to be something wrong. But no, it’s a perfectly conical blue spruce, full and whole, no bald patches or crooked limbs or anything. She smiles. “So then what?” he asks. “Blue spruce, right? Looks fine to me.”

“I’m sure it is. Because, well, off they went with the saw and the sled, only when they left the little shed where you picked up the saws it had started sleeting  _ harder _ , which kind of spoiled the mood.” He snorts, and Anathema shrugs. “I know. I know! All enthusiasm at first I guess, until the reality of how stupid they were being hit them all.”

“How it goes,” Crowley says sympathetically. “We’ve all been there.”

“Not cutting down a tree in the sleet, I haven’t. So they leave the shed, Adam told me, and Brian was pulling the sled and there was little sleet balls like, collecting in it, and Wensley kept talking about pneumonia, and Newt had to keep body-checking Pepper away from the saw, and I guess it was a disaster. So first tree they came up to, I guess, Newt was like, ‘Hey looks good, right!’” Her smile is wide now, broad and honest and hinting at barely-contained laughter. “And they all agree because I’m given to understand that even  _ with _ proper raincoats it was starting to get miserable, and Newt and Wensley were the only ones who wore actual functional raincoats and not sweatshirts, so they start sawing.”

“Went well, did it?” 

“Not at all.” She is laughing now, truly laughing. “You felt the needles, right? They’re  _ sharp _ , and they’re not like … like fir needles that are all bendy. So I guess Newt was the first one to try with the saw, but he kept getting stabbed by the needles, so he gave up and handed the saw over to Pepper.”

Crowley winces. “Interesting choice.”

“She’s probably the most responsible out of all of them, honestly,” Anathema confesses to her wine. “Propensity for argument aside, she’s bright and she thinks critically and has common sense. Adam runs a close second, but … he has his moments.” She waves a hand. “Anyway, Pepper lasted longer, but then the needles were cutting her face so she bowed out.”

Crowley is looking at the tree, clearly impressed. “Nice job,” he says, and Anathema knows he’s talking to the tree. “Not easy, getting that girl to give up.”

“Nope. So Adam tried next, but as soon as he crawled under the tree I guess a spider went down his shirt and he threw the saw away and had Wensley and Pepper just sort of … start slapping him on the back. To kill it, I guess? Newt said he still has no idea whether they ever got it, or if Adam just had a really stunned spider riding around on him for the rest of the day.”

“Ah. One of his moments.”

“One of his moments,” she agrees with a chuckle. “All he’s been through, and he hates spiders. Well, I guess everyone has something. Are there any spider demons?”

Crowley nods his head. “Loads. Very scary, spiders, and so many kinds of them. Probably best he turned down the whole destiny thing - fate of the planet aside, he would have  _ hated _ the Council of Eight.”

“Is that a spider-related demon council?” Anathema asks, momentarily distracted, her eyes wide. “What do they … are they administrative or … ?”

“Nah, they’re like … like a infernal spider fanciers’ club.” He makes a face. “They’re really weird, honestly. They kept inviting me early-on, but I turned ‘em down. Not sure what they wanted from a serpent, but I’m not really sure I want to know, either.”

“Probably better not to.” She and Crowley consider that in silence for a minute or two, before she continues with the tale. “Anyway, so it was apparently Brian that finally cut down the tree.”

“Naturally. He probably enjoyed it.”

She sits up, wide-eyed and nodding. “Oh, he did. He’s still talking about it. You should ask him about it, you’d think he’s Paul Bunyan, the way he talks about it. I think it’s all those outdoorsman YouTube channels he’s been watching.”

Crowley snickers, and the laughs a little. “Alright, well, that’s funny, yeah. How -”

“Oh, that wasn’t really the funny part. That was an  _ amuse bouche _ .” She raises an eyebrow. “So the tree falls over, right?”

“Right.”

“And then someone starts  _ yelling _ at them.” She grins in response to Crowley’s raised eyebrow. “Like really yelling. And they look up and like, just on the other side of the tree they cut down there’s … a house,” she says, drawing out the reveal for the suspense.

Crowley’s eyes go wide, and he breaks into a real grin, all mischievous glee. “Oh  _ no _ .”

“ _ Oh yes _ .” She goes on, giggling, “and there’s a woman standing in the door of the house, and she’s yelling that they’re in her  _ garden _ , and they just cut down the tree over her old dog’s grave -”

“ _ Oh no _ !” but he’s laughing, harder by the second, head thrown back over the back of the sofa. “No!”

“Yep! Honest truth!”

Crowley is helpless with giggles. He curls up on himself, holding his ribs. “They cut down someone’s landscaping,” he wheezes. 

“And the lady comes out and is just … just yelling at them, and poor Wensley starts panicking, so does Newt, and Adam and Pepper are trying to talk her down. Well, Adam was; apparently Pepper kept telling her that if she didn’t want people to cut down her dog’s memorial tree she shouldn’t have made it a pine tree right next to the path to a Christmas tree farm.” He doesn’t respond, and he’s laughing so hard he’s lapsed into that sort of silent laughter, which is alright, because she needs a second to catch her breath and laugh, too. 

“So,” she goes on, when she thinks he might have recovered enough to continue, “anyway, it’s already cut down, so what are they gonna do about it?” He spreads his hands, a wordless expression of ‘I don’t know’, and she shrugs. “So I guess Brian and Pep threw the tree into the sled and legged it.” 

That gets him going again, and Anathema feels a wave of relief that he doesn’t need to breathe, because otherwise she’d be concerned that he might need oxygen soon. He is slumped weakly over the back of the couch, hugging his ribs. He does try to say something, ask a question maybe, but it comes out as a series of sort of choked squeaking noises, and he gives up.

“She was threatening to call the police at that point,” Anathema goes on, “and Newt and Wensley I guess were just apologizing profusely, and Adam was telling her he’d pay her for it and then come back in the summer and re-plant another tree, which she was having none of.”

“‘Course not,” he finally manages, although he is still strained. “They cut down her landscaping.”

“That they did.” She grins - her face is starting to hurt, she’s smiling so much - and takes a drink of her wine while he gets a hold of himself.

Eventually, he’s recovered enough to manage a sip of wine himself. “So what then? How’d they ... “ He waves a hand at the tree. “I mean, it’s here, and Newt’s not in jail, so I’m assuming there was some kind of resolution.”

She nods. “There was. I guess eventually she calmed down enough to take the money Newt and Adam were offering her, and somehow Adam convinced her he was serious about re-planting the tree. So he has that on his agenda in the spring, I guess.”

“Wonder if he’ll need a hand,” Crowley muses. “Not for the actual digging, I’m not the one who vandalized someone’s back garden, but for, you know. Emotional support. Persistent mockery.”

Anathema smiles. “I’m sure he’d welcome it. Anyway, so Newt gave her £45, I think he said, and off they go. Wensley was mortified.”

“I’m sure he was.” He rubs his thumb across the corner of his eye. “Oh, bugger, that’s funny. At least you got a nice tree out of it.”

“Well, yeah, except it didn’t end there.” Crowley boggles. “So he tells me they get down to the little shed, and there’s Brian and Pep with the tree in the sled, and they’re trying to explain to the guy at the register what happened but he doesn’t believe them.”

Crowley puts his face in his hands. “Of course not.”

“Even with Newt and Wensley and Adam backing them up, I guess the guy doesn’t budge. So he measures the tree and tells them it’ll be £55.”

“ _ Fifty five pounds _ ?” Crowley swears. “I’ve gotta start growing trees.”

“I’m sure you’d do well,” she says, and she means it. “Anyway, Newt  _ cannot _ convince this man that the tree wasn from his farm, and the guy won budge, so Newt pays him, too. He must have been really annoyed with them too, because he told Newt rope to tie it to the car would be an up-charge, even though Wensley said he saw a sign that said it was included.”

“Nice.” 

“And he didn’t offer to help them. Which, I guess they thought would be fine since there were five of them, but you know the Them - constant chaos - and two of them tried to climb onto the same side of Dick Turpin at once and the whole car fell over.” He bursts out laughing again. “I said he should ask around the village to see if anyone would be willing to lend him a car with, you know, four wheels, but he wasn’t interested. Said his car would be fine. It fell over four more times on the way home, because they didn’t tie the tree tightly enough and it kept rolling around.”

“This can’t all be true. You’re having me on,” he whimpers. “Maybe the yard thing, maybe the car falling over once, but -”

“No, it’s all legit. I swear. Hand to … hand to Dog.” She is exasperated now, but laughing too. “I mean, come on, it’s Newt and the Them. Unattended. Is it really  _ that _ hard to believe?”

He thinks about it, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Guess not,” he says, eventually. He gigles a little while longer, and then groans. “I’d only believe ti coming from them, though.”

“I know. They’re a unique bunch.” She gazes at the tree and sighs. “But you’re right: we got a nice tree out of the deal.”

“And some scheduled entertainment in the spring, too,” he adds. “I’ll have to talk to Adam about that. I have to meet this woman.”

She gestures to the tree with her glass of wine. “Of course, it drops needles like anything, and it’s full of spiders, and the needles are sharp enough to get stuck in your foot, but it  _ is _ pretty.”

He nods. “Pretty is,” he says solemnly, “as pretty does.” 

Companionable silence settles over the sitting room for a moment, the two of them relaxed next to one another on the couch, appreciating the cursed Christmas tree. “Oh, man,” Crowley concludes at length, idly rubbing his stomach. “Best work-out I’ve had in a while. You know, we ought to make Newt tell Aziraphale.”

Anathema snorts. “He’d hate that. Newt, that is. I know Aziraphale would love it. It would be hilarious.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He sighs, and looks from the tree to the TV. “Alright. What masterpiece did you pick for tonight?”

“Ah. I thought you’d never ask. It’s a classic. I thought rather than horror -” he raises an eyebrow, “- I’d pick something festive. Have you ever seen ‘ _ The Spirit of Christmas _ ’?”

“A Christmas movie?” he sounds doubtful. “Like one of those awful Hallmark ones?”

“Exactly.” She picks up the remote and clicks the TV on, scrolling through her phone to find the movie. “I’d give you a summary, but it might kind of spoil it. I will say that there’s a ghost.”

“Oh. Alright.” He settles back. “I’m in.”

“And if you hate it, I also rented  _ Chupacabra Dawn _ to watch after.”

“ _ That’s _ what I’m talking about. I’ve been wanting to watch that one.” The movie starts, and Crowley is quiet for a bit, sipping his wine. A scene or so in, however, she sees his eyes narrow. “Hang on … does this … does this woman fall in love with a ghost?”

“ _ Of course she does _ .”

Crowley smirks and snorts, and tops off his wineglass. “Alright, you’ve brought me around.” They toast, and he snickers. “To your horrible interior pine tree. I love it. Demon-approved.”

She raises her wineglass to her lips and says, before she drinks, “Yeah, I kind of thought it would be.”


	12. Caroling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I havent been to England in like 20 years but I'm doing my best.

For a big city, Crowley reflects, London is certainly quirky. Well, maybe that’s the way of cities, he thinks, reflecting back on his brief time in New York in the forties and fifties. They’re all sort of quirky in their own ways, and though on the surface they look similar - skyscrapers, big blocky buildings, each trying to look more modern and marvelous than the next - cities have their own personalities. 

London, for example, doesn’t have walls that separate one neighborhood from the other, but nevertheless you can  _ tell _ when you move into a new area. It’s not just the look of the place that changes (because that doesn’t always change very much at all), but the look of the people. The way they move, interact with one another, the type of shops you see. It’s very clear when he walks from his flat in Mayfair - brutal, modern architecture around which businesspeople in somber suits hustle - to Soho. In Soho, the buildings are smaller, yes, but the people are just sort of friendlier. Colors are brighter, neighbors stop to chat, and the demographics get a bit more eclectic. 

He  _ likes _ Soho. It reminds him of Rome, before everything went to shit. He would rather discorporate, of course, than admit that to Aziraphale’s face, but he reckons the angel probably knows anyway.

He takes his time while he walks today, weaving and dodging through people carrying packages and coffees. It’s cold, but he’s got his warmest coat on, and he’d actually taken the time to put a pair of boots on: some slick, insulated things that Aziraphale had given him last Christmas. “I know we don’t really do gifts,” the angel had said apologetically, as Crowley studied the boots, “and I know you don’t really wear shoes, but well, I thought they looked stylish, and I’m always so worried about you -”

He hadn’t needed to explain himself. Crowley had told him so, and then thanked him for the boots with rather less words and rather more actions, and then he’d put them on to walk to dinner, the two of them meandering through the park. He’d worn them more since then, too: as soon as the temperature starts hovering closer to 0, Crowley makes it his habit to position the boots closer to the door, easily-accessible and a welcome reminder of more than just sensible footwear.

A block or so over from Aziraphale’s, a sound catches his attention. He glances this way and that, curious, until he catches sight of what looks like a cluster of people, singing.

Oh. Carolers. How nice.

It’s not exactly insincere, the way he thinks about carolers, but he doesn’t have a lot of enthusiasm for them either. It’s too reminiscent of … well, not to say he hasn’t had plenty of positive singing experiences through the past 6000 years, but when he hears a group of voices raised together singing ‘Glory, hallelujah’, a little part of him twinges and the stars seem just a little bit farther away. 

Thankfully, this group is not, at the moment, singing anything about glory or hallelujahs, and Crowley resolves to be past them before Jingle Bells is over and the consider switching to something less secular. He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets, tucks his chin into the collar of his jacket, and walks.

The bookstore is a block away. It’s closed - what’s new - but the door opens for him anyway. Inside, Aziraphale has the gramophone on and is listening to something nice and light - Mozart - while he is busy with an armful of books. Shelving, by the look of it, and if his outstretched arm and tip-toe posture is any hint as to how it’s going, he could use a hand.

“Hey, angel.” Crowley shrugs off his coat and dumps it on the rack before he crosses the shop to take the book from Aziraphale. “Need a bit more height?”

Aziraphale blushes a little. “Yes, actually. If you - yes, just there, between those two.” He nods approvingly when the leather-bound tome is in place. As Crowley relaxes, he feels the warmth of the angel’s arm wrap around his waist. “Hello, Crowley. I didn’t hear you coming.”

Crowley shrugs. “Felt a bit restless, thought I’d walk.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale frowns and hands Crowley another book. “You weren’t fiddling with the pedestrian crossing lights again, were you?”

“Nah, that was last week.”

“Gluing coins to the sidewalk?”

Crowley shakes his head, somewhat insulted by the suggestion. “Had to get over here, didn’t I? I hardly had time to hang around and watch.”

The angel looks suspicious. “You’re telling me you walked over here, innocently, without causing even one bit of havoc.”

“Call it the holiday spirit, if you like,” Crowley says with a smirk. “Right, where’s this one go then?”

“Over here.” Aziraphale leads the way, Crowley obediently following behind, not bothering to look over the book in his hands. “So, did you see anything interesting on your walk over?”

“Eh, not really.” He brightens. “Someone dropped their mobile down the grate outside of my flat, that was fun.”

“ _ Crowley _ .”

“I had nothing to do with it, I swear. Just saw it happen.” He shrugs and watches Aziraphale shelf another book, not really paying attention to much beside the way his angel moves, the soft gray cardigan, the feeling of contentment radiating off of him so strongly that even Crowley can’t miss it. Or maybe it’s the little smile. “Dunno,” he says with a shrug. “Lots of shoppers out today - surprised you’re not open.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes, well. Just so.”

“Uh-huh. I get it. Oh, there were some carolers the next block over. Weren’t bad.”

“Ah.” And just like that, Aziraphale is watching him, carefully, studying the angles and the lines of his face visible around the sunglasses. 

Crowley scoffs. “Don’t give me that look, they were singing ‘Jingle Bells’. No heavenly choirs or anything, don’t worry about me.”

“Oh. Good. Could you put that one up there, between the green one and the brown one?”

“These two?”

“No, a bit to the left.” He busies himself with another book while Crowley carefully rearranges the volumes on the top shelf to make the new one fit. “I think you’d be alright with them anyway - it’s the LGBTQ choir from down the way, anyhow, and I think they try to stick with non-denominational carols.”

“Non-demon-ti-vational?” He looks to Aziraphale, a smug little grin on his lips and his eyebrows raised. “Eh?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Why don’t we order in tonight?” He ignores the way Crowley pouts at his unacknowledged pun. “I was thinking something from Ms Le’s around the corner - she does a wonderful Peking duck and I have to say I’ve been a bit peckish.”

Crowley takes another book from Aziraphale, who taps the two books he wants it shelved between before he moves on. “Whatever you like, angel.” He is careful, so careful with this one, because it’s already looking a bit worn at the corners, and for Aziraphale to trust him with a book so close to being in need of restoration is a big step for his friend. A thought occurs to him, tickling the back of his brain for a moment before he asks, “Don’t you help that choir out sometimes?”

“I do,” he confirms, tucking the last book in his hands away, and propping his fists on his hips, satisfied.

“You don’t want to go hear them sing?” He jerks a thumb toward the door of the shop. “You ought to go.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Well, I was thinking about it, but I had the books, and then you’re here now, so it’s alright. I think they’re planning on performing every weekend now, between now and Christmas. It’s only the first one, I’ll catch another.”

“The fi - no! No, you should go.” Crowley spreads his arms. “You wanted to go, didn’t you? Come on, I’ll go with you.” He groans. “Don’t give me that look, I’ll be alright if you’re there. Come on.”

“You’ll get cold. And Ms Le -”

“We can walk there after, have a proper meal in the shop. And I’ll be fine, I’ve got warm stuff on. See? Boots!” He gestures to his shoes, and doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale smiles. “ _ Come on _ , it’s not that cold and it’s not raining and there’s all kinds of people out and it’ll be fun.”

“Well. If you’re sure,” but Crowley is already walking away, back toward the coat rack. Aziraphale insists on wrapping Crowley in a ridiculous tartan scarf before they head out, just to be sure, but once he’s satisfied they step out of the shop and into the street, Crowley with his hands in his pockets and Aziraphale holding his elbow as he smiles at the bustle of the world going by.

“You know what I miss about Christmas carolers?” Crowley asks, startling the angel. “I miss when they used to just stand in front of your door and sing really obnoxiously until you gave them food to make them go away. Remember that?”

Aziraphale grins. “Yes, actually. Yes, funny, hadn’t thought of it in years but … I used to keep soul cakes in the shop for when they’d come by.”

“Of course you did.” Crowley sighs, but he’s smiling, a fond little grin. “I never gave them anything - just waited to see how many songs they’d sing before they called me a wanker and left.”

That draws a sigh from the angel. “Of course you did.”

“Hah, good times. Miss that.” They walk past a bakery on the way - one of Aziraphale’s favorites - and Crowley slows. The carolers are visible ahead, still singing relentlessly at the holiday shoppers walking by. “Wanna go in?” he asks, tilting his head toward the window. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to spoil my appetite.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, for your humans. They have rugelach, look.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s face softens. “That’s very -” he pauses to carefully choose his words, “- very benevolent of you, today.” He steps toward the door of the bakery, and Crowley waves him along, staying behind in the street. Aziraphale looks to him, puzzled.

“Get me a coffee while you’re at it - I’ll be right there. Just have to make a call. Remembered something for Anathema.” Aziraphale doesn’t believe him - good for him, he’s right that Crowley’s lying - but he goes inside anyway and steps into line. Crowley watches him for a few seconds, just to be sure he’s amply preoccupied with the bakery case and the menu, and then pulls a two-pound coin and a tube of superglue from his pocket. It’s the work of a few seconds to put the coin into place, visible both from the bakery and the benches near the singers, and after a minor miracle the glue is instantly dried, fixed tight to the pavement. Crowley straightens back up, brushes his hands on his coat, and smiles, before turning back toward the bakery, whistling a song about figgy pudding as he goes.


	13. Wrapping Paper

The text went out three days before the planned Airfield Group Holiday Reunion, and came from Anathema: 'bring an empty wrapping paper tube. Choose your weapon.'

"What does that mean?" Aziraphale asked after Crowley's phone read the text out. The demon snickered. "What? What am I missing?"

Crowley patted him on the shoulder. "You've never sword fought with an empty wrapping paper tube?" 

"Oh." Aziraphale went wide-eyed. "Is that… the intention?"

"Can't imagine what else 'choose your weapon' might infer."

Aziraphale considered it. "Wrapping paper tubes aren't particularly well-balanced." Crowley snorted. "Still, I think I can find something, perhaps trim it down to size." 

He had. And once at the party, he had wielded the tube with both extreme prejudice and extreme precision. “This was a bad idea,” Anathema said to Crowley as the two of them huddled in the bathtub, lights off, trying to be very quiet to avoid detection. “I thought it would be funny but this was a bad idea.”

“I mean it’s hilarious,” Crowley allowed, “until you get beaten with a cardboard tube. I hope he’s going gentler on the kids than on the adults.”

There was screaming downstairs; either the Them were delighting in ganging up on the angel (likely), or they were fleeing in terror (unlikely and, in fact, inaccurate: they were taking it in turns to try to get past him and into the kitchen, where Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell were guarding a platter of cookies that the victor would lay claim too).

“I wonder what happened to Newt,” Anathema mused. 

“I think he’s dead.” 

He was not dead. Not quite, anyway. He  _ was _ sitting out in the back garden, taking a breather and experimentally prodding a sore spot on his shoulder where Aziraphale had caught him with the tube-sword, wondering if it would bruise. He could always say something to Aziraphale about it of course, and the angel would very likely apologize profusely and heal it in no time at all, but Newt considered that that would entail actually speaking to Aziraphale one-on-one, man-to-angel, and decided that he would rather have a bruise.

In the bathtub, Crowley was quiet. “You know, I might have an idea.”

“Oh?” More screaming from downstairs, and a volley of sounds that went  _ bonk _ as, presumably, the Angel of the Eastern Gate fended four teens off without much trouble. ‘ _ Retreat _ !’ they heard Adam say. “What kind of idea?”

Crowley said, very slowly, “Is it cheating … to shapeshift?”

In the dark, Anathema beamed. “I don’t think it was ever specified.”

“Oh. Excellent. Hold my cardboard.”

Downstairs, the Them were huddled behind the couch, strategizing. “Okay,” Pepper said, leaning in closer. Aziraphale, posted at the door to the kitchen, pretended he couldn’t hear every word. “So a frontal assault won’t work. We’ll have to try distraction. Brian and Adam: you are going to have to start out with a forward charge to occupy him.” They nodded. “You’ll be beaten pretty much instantly, but I promise when me an’ Wensley get into the kitchen we’ll share the spoils with you.”

“Okay.” Adam nodded solemnly. “Okay. Stick with me, Brian.” The other boy nodded grimly.

“Right,” Pepper went on. “Right, so then while he’s distracted with that, Wensley, you can take the right side and I’ll take the left. Whichever one of us can slip into the kitchen, go: when the opportunity presents itself, take it.”

“Got it,” Wensley said. “Actually, I think that has the best chance of working.”

“Me too,” Adam agreed. “Alright, you want to count from three?”

Wensley shook his head. “Actually, five has less room for error.”

“Do we go on three or wait until after you say three to go?” Brian asked. 

“I think -” and the bickering began anew. Aziraphale waited patiently. Unbeknownst to everyone, and unnoticed, a large, black snake slithered down the staircase, slipping around under furniture and along the baseboards until it came to rest coiled up under a cabinet positioned, conveniently, by the door to the kitchen.

“- When I say three, alright? Ready? One, two, thr -” 

The Them charged. As discussed, Brian and Adam mounted a forward attack and earned sound  _ bonk _ s to their heads for their efforts, driving them back. As an afterthought, Aziraphale also caught Wensley in the upper arm, eliciting a disappointed “Oh, blast” from the boy. Pepper had the best odds - her positioning and sheer enthusiasm ensured that - and she engaged Aziraphale in a brief flurry of blows, actually managing to drive him back a step or two but ultimately suffering defeat in the form of a cardboard tube  _ bonk _ square on the head. “S’not fair!” she cried. “You’re really good at this! I thought you sold books!”

“I do  _ now _ ,” Aziraphale replied, trying not to sound too smug. “But do bear in mind, my dear, that -”

“I win.” It was stated simply, but there was a strong undercurrent of gloating. Aziraphale spun, giving Pepper a good whack on the wrist as he did so, because her cardboard tube had started to twitch a little. Crowley stood in the kitchen, behind the table, holding the plate of cookies aloft. Madame Tracy looked delighted, Shadwell rather more horrified.

“ _ Demon _ ,” the old man gasped. 

“Yeah, we established that years ago.  _ Don’t _ get out the pin, I’m not a bloody witch,” Crowley said, side-stepping away. 

Aziraphale blinked. “But how did you - did you crawl through the window?”

“Shapeshifter!” Shadwell shouted, pointing a trembling finger. “Back to Hell with ye, ye great beast from the Pit -”

Madame Tracy patted Shadwell’s hand. “He got fired from there dear, remember?”

Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks disappointed. “Oh. You cheated.”

Crowley took a bite out of one of the cookies. “Didn’t. You never specified shapeshifting was off-limits.” He crunched another bite of the cookie down. “So I win. Technically fairly.”

“I think it kind of goes against the spirit of it,” Adam said dubiously. “I mean, me an’ Them can’t shapeshift..”

“Quite right, dear boy,” Aziraphale agreed. “Crowley, I must ask that you put the tray back down.”

Crowley smirked. “Shan’t.”

“Please, dear. I won’t ask again.”

“Good, because they’re mine.”

Wensley protested, “I thought you didn’t even eat that much, actually.”

Aziraphale was considering his tube. He sighed deeply, heavily, and said, “Pepper, please step back.” Pepper, who had been creeping up behind him, tube held in a two-handed grip overhead, stopped, something in his tone freezing her in place. “Crowley, I hope you know you forced my hand on this.”

The tray of cookies wobbled, drifting down toward the table. “On what?” Crowley asked suspiciously.   


“Oh dear,” said Madame Tracy, taking a sip of tea. “You’ve done it now, I’m afraid.”

The platter clunked onto the table. “Listen, angel, I was just kidding, ha ha good old Crowley always up to something, right? You can have them -”

“No, no. I’m afraid your demonic wiles have gone too far this time. It is only my duty to thwart them.” He spun the tube in his hand twice, experimentally, and then held it up. Suddenly, with a  _ whoosh _ , magnesium-bright flames alit along the length of the thing. With a cry, the Them collectively jumped back, and Shadwell, overcome, yelled “ _ Witchcraft! _ ”. Madame Tracy stirred another sugar cube into his tea for him. 

Crowley didn’t say another word: there was no attempt at self-defense, no justification. With a sort of frantic sucking and popping noise, he just vanished, replaced by the same black snake from earlier. He wasted no time in darting up the wall and using his snout to bump open the latch on the kitchen window, before disappearing into the brown winter garden. Aziraphale watched him for a minute, and then sighed, relaxed his grip on the tube so the thing fell back to his side, no longer on fire and completely unsinged. 

“It’s a very good trick, Mr. Aziraphale,” Madame Tracy said. “Go on, I baked the chocolate chip ones this morning myself.”

“Thank you.” He stepped into the kitchen and plucked a cookie from the relinquished platter. He finished the treat and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. The Them were huddled in the doorway now, awed expressions on their faces, and when Aziraphale turned to them to wave them into the little room the might have leaned back a bit. “No, no, none of that now. I win, game’s over, come eat some cookies.” They didn’t need telling twice and, with a fervor unique to teenagers, fell onto the platter with gusto. The angel, meanwhile, crossed the little kitchen to close the window. “I’m afraid I have to go find Crowley. Would you hold this, Ms Tracy?” He offered the tube but Pepper got it first, studying it. 

“How’d you make it light on fire?”

“Cheating,” he answered simply at the same time Shadwell mumbled, “Witchcraft.”

Aziraphale started for the garden, saying, “It’s just quite cold for him out there today, and I can’t have him go into brumation right now, not that he  _ needs _ to do that but he doesn’t resist the temptation well. Hopefully he’ll find a heat source until I can convince him -”

From outside, there was a screeched “Aieee!” in Newt’s timber, and Aziraphale smiled pleasantly, ignoring Shadwell’s muttering about witches and sin. “Ah, and I believe he found Mr. Pulsifer. Capital. I’ll just go collect them now, won’t be a moment,” he said, before stepping outside to rescue the pair.


	14. Eggnog

“I don’t sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter,” he had told Aziraphale once, long ago. That wasn’t …  _ entirely _ a lie. Certainly, he found raw fish gross. He found most foods gross, really. But in his many, many years and frightfully few visits to Earth, Gabriel had developed  _ tastes _ .

One of which was, unfortunately, warm eggnog.

Crowley and Aziraphale had cottoned onto Gabriel and Beelzebub’s illicit little lunches a few months ago, and had fallen into the custom of tailing them for spying purposes whenever they were aware of such a meeting. The two of them seemed to prefer rather … lower-quality establishments than the more Earthly pair did, but then again they hadn’t had as much experience. Perhaps they would learn, in time.

Or perhaps not.

Today, Aziraphale and Crowley were surreptitiously watching from behind a pair of newspapers. The Archangel fucking Gabriel and the literal Prince of Hell had chosen a little family diner for their lunch, of all places, and both of them stuck out like sore thumbs among the Londoners who’d just nipped in for a bite. It was fortunate for Aziraphale and Crowley: they were usually the most conspicuous pair, but today they just looked like two friends sharing a paper and some coffee.

“Did he just say,” Aziraphale muttered to Crowley out of the corner of his mouth, “that he wants them to  _ warm up _ the eggnog?”

“I think some people like it like that,” Crowley said doubtfully, turning a page just for the look of things. “Maybe.”

Aziraphale snarled at the comics’ page, although truthfully he was not reading the comics at all. “He said he wouldn’t  _ sully the temple of his celestial body _ with  _ gross matter _ . And now warm eggnog! He ordered warmed eggnog! Did you  _ see _ the way the waitress looked at him?”

“No,” Crowley answered, completely honestly: he had looked, but at this distance the waitress was little more than a blur in a red-and-green suit. “Could smell the horror coming off of her, though. Ssh, I think Beelz is giving him zir feelings on it.”

They quieted down just enough to hear the Prince buzz, “You know you can get zz - salmonella from that, right?”

“Well,  _ I _ can’t,” Gabriel scoffed. “Besides, it’s better warm.”

“No, it’sz really not.” Beelzebub took a bit of zir salad, green and fresh and crunchy and, Crowley thought, completely incongruous with zir entire aesthetic. He sipped his own black coffee in disdain. “Have you ever tried it cold?”

“Why would I?”

Beelzebub put sir head to one side. “Why … wouldn’t you?”

“Because I like it warm. Why mess with a good thing, am I right? Can’t improve upon perfection.”

“Perfection isz a strong word.” The waitress returned, a mug of microwaved eggnog in hand. “Euch,” said the Lord of the Flies. 

Gabriel took a sip and beamed. “Delicious. Perfection, like I said.”

“It’sz probably not even  _ good _ eggnog.”

“ _ Perfection _ .” He swallowed another mouthful and Beelzebub took the opportunity to push the black olives to the side of zir plate. “Right. So business: you heard from your boss?”

“No. You?” 

“No.” Behind their papers, Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged exasperated looks. “Any word from the traitors?”

“Not on my end. Your man still haszn’t Fallen, and Crowley’sz sztill doing … whatever he doesz.”

“And no signs of unrest?”

“Nope. Miszerable as ever, down there.”

“Likewise.” Gabriel took another sip of his drink and, by all appearances, ignored Beelzebub’s wince. “Any plans for you?”

“Like what? Keeping Hell from riszing up and staging another revolution? Juszt the uszual, really.” Ze prodded at a tomato. “Nothing new.”

Gabriel smiled, sort of forced but also oddly genuine. “So you … don’t have anything on for the afternoon, then?” Beelzebub shook zir head ‘no’. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a significant look behind the papers. “Because I’m given to understand your man Crowley was fond of these things called  _ films _ , and I’ve never seen a film besides the Sound of Music - didn’t even know others existed - so I was wondering if you’d ever … ?”

“Films,” Beelzebub said in the tone of an expert, “are spectacular. Can’t believe you’ve never seen a proper one. Really missing out in Heaven, you all are.” Zir mouth full, Beelzebub went on, “Did you have one in mind?”

“I believe it’s called  _ The Troubles _ . It sounds very general, probably enjoyable.”

Crowley, who had seen  _ The Troubles _ last Thursday during a sleepless night, and who had cried through the last thirty minutes when the love-lorn young silversmith had to watch his secret beau go off to fight in the American Civil War, raised an eyebrow. Oh, how he’d love to be there for that viewing, but honestly he was sure he’d probably start crying even earlier this time, knowing what’s coming, and he wasn’t sure he could stand for Aziraphale to see him like that. 

“Never heard of that one,” Beelzebub admitted. “What’d the previewsz look like?”

“What’s a preview?”

“It’sz ... you know, never mind.” Ze finished zir salad. “Alright. Let’sz go. Maybe it’ll have a lot of blood in it or something.”

Gabriel nodded, pleased, and waved the waitress over to ask if he could possibly get more nog in a large to-go cup. The woman, clearly disturbed by the request, responded in the affirmative, and hurried off to finish the cursed errand.

“ _ Gross matter _ ,” Aziraphale muttered with disgust. “I wonder if we should go see the film with -”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley responded quickly and emphatically, and when that garnered him a bewildered he shrugged. “Saw the previews. You wouldn’t like it.”

The angel nodded. “Ah. One of those murder-spree films you like so much?”

“Uh, yeah, uh-huh. Very gory,” which was true, if you ignored the prior two hours of film and only focused on the last twenty minutes where the secret beau was killed horribly at Gettysburg, and the silversmith, grief-stricken, burned his right arm so badly it fell off, leaving him emotionally and physically crippled. Crowley had cried the entire way home, too, and then through half a bottle of wine in his flat, until the soothing repetition of the  _ Golden Girls _ brought him back to rights. 

The demon thought about it, watched Gabriel leave a miracled-up hundred pound note on the table (“He’ll ruin the economy, if he keeps carrying on like that,” Aziraphale admonished), and suggested. “Well … we could grab a bottle of wine and wait outside the theater in the Bentley. See how they look when they come out. I’ve got that new audiobook, we could start on that one.”

Aziraphale side-eyed him, still behind the newspaper although the other pair had left, and asked, “Is the narrator horrible?”

“Dunno, haven’t listened to any of it yet. We could give it a run, see how it is. If you hate it, there’s always Queen.” This, said in the resigned tone of a demon who knew his place in the world. 

Aziraphale finally folded up the paper and pulled a handful of notes - which totaled, improbably, £100 - on the table. “Yes, alright. Let’s go.”

They gave the Archangel and the Prince of Hell a few minutes’ head start, Crowley finishing his coffee and Aziraphale getting a slice of cream pie packed up to-go. “You know if you don’t want wine,” Crowley said while they waited on the pie, “we could always get some -”

“If you finish that sentence,” Aziraphale said primly, accepting the takeaway box from the waitress with a gentle smile and a polite word of thanks, “I shall tell Anathema what you did last Thursday night.”

Crowley blinked. “I - you weren’t … What?  _ What _ ?”

“You must have dialed me on accident while you were sobbing during the final act of the film. I hung up before you had finished, of course. It did sound like a very good film - you certainly seemed to be moved by it.”

Crowley scowled at the angel, who had since stood and was smirking smugly down on him. “You bastard.”

“Yes.” He held out a hand and helped lever the demon to his feet, grinning the entire time. “Yes, indeed.”


	15. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the sub-series of several continuous drabbles ... Part 1/11, hang in there, we're celebrating someone's birthday in style.

Technically, it was Raziel’s fault, all of this mess. 

_ Technically _ . It was a technicality that, at the moment, Raziel was clinging to with unprecedented ferocity. More ferocity, even, than the time after the No-pocalyse, and that had been an unusual display of stubbornness from the usually mild-mannered angel, facing down Michael and Gabriel with braced shoulders and spread wings and steely eyes and a very important notebook filled with  _ very important notes _ . 

This time, however, Gabriel was not about to give in so easily because this time, he was  _ pretty sure _ that Raziel’s little notebook of dictations from the Almighty said nothing about this. “You were supposed to be guarding the gate!”

“I am  _ supposed _ to do nothing besides take the Almighty’s dictations down,” Raziel replied. “I  _ have been _ guarding the gate as well, because  _ you _ pulled the last five cherubim off duty for getting too pal-sy with the Son!”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Raziel,” he said after a beat, slowly, as if speaking to a small child, which did nothing to make the other angel more inclined to help him, “all you had to do - dictations or no - was keep him from getting out. He’s not supposed to get out until the Second Coming and  _ apparently _ -” he gestured to Raziel’s notebook with no small amount of exasperation, “- it’s not quite time for that yet! Unless there’s something you need to  _ tell me _ ?”

Raziel arched one eyebrow delicately. “Nope.”

“Well. Well, then.” Gabriel smoothed down the front of his jacket, fiddled with the collar of his shirt, and then cleared his throat. “Well. I guess I’ll just … go find him then. He’s the Son of God, he can’t be that hard to find.”

Raziel, who had paid close attention during the events of Nah-mageddon and remembered the difficulty Crowley and Aziraphale had had tracking down Adam said, “Oh, for sure, boss.”   


“And  _ you _ .” Gabriel frowned for a minute, chewing his thoughts over. “You are being replaced as guardian of the gate. And I will be telling Metatron about this.”

Raziel did not shrug, although he desperately wanted to. Instead, he simply nodded and said, “Understood.”

“And Sachiel!”

“Okay.”

Gabriel glared at him for another moment and then made a disgusted, frustrated sort of groaning noise before turning and storming off, leaving Raziel alone. The angel waited until he was well away, unlikely to turn back around, before he leaned up against the doorframe of the Son’s celestial apartments, and cracked open his notebook.

There were pages - pages and pages and pages, more than one little leather-bound book looked capable of holding - of notes in Raziel’s neat handwriting. Some were quite long, others were only one or two words. Some were vague, others were concise and to the point. Interspersed very sporadically indeed, among the angel’s own careful script, there were other notes, written in a different hand. It was not God’s handwriting, Raziel knew - God had no need to write, instead depositing Her messages directly into his head - but it  _ did _ belong to someone  _ close _ to God, although blessedly not the Metatron, that jumped-up press secretary. No, this was the handwriting of someone who was close to God but not privy to Her thoughts, and who, on occasion, liked to share her own opinions with Raziel.

One such message was written now, appearing on the page as Raziel watched. “She says not to worry. Honestly, She won’t stop laughing, but when I ask why She won’t say. Good luck figuring that one out. Oh, and She says: ‘ _ Lette the Meffenger toil inne vain, and thee reste, for when that the Seasone has faded shalle the Sonne return.’ _ So there you go.”

Raziel, who had at this point had quite enough contact with God and ample time with Agnes to understand the prophecy without any difficulty at all, nodded and closed the notebook. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmured, waving a hand. From the ephemera, a comfortable chair took shape, and Raziel settled into it without hesitation. The notebook was dutifully tucked away into an unseen pocket and from the same pocket another book - this one a battered, marked-up paperback copy of ‘ _ The Thin Man’ _ \- was produced. Raziel flipped through the pages until he came across a bookmark, and nestled into the recliner a little more.

-

Meanwhile, on Earth, outside of a swanky high-end office building in London proper, a young man - perhaps about thirty years old - was running, and laughing as he did. He had dark skin and dark hair that fell in loose curls around his face and, as he ran, bounced behind him. He ran for a while, just a little, taking turns through the city seemingly at random, until he stopped in the middle of Trafalgar Square, wide-eyed. “Wow,” he breathed, his warm breath rising in clouds in front of him. Above, the sky turned gray and rain - freezing rain - began to fall.

The tree was not lit in the daytime, although come the night it would be. It wasn’t particularly awe-inspiring, any more than a gigantic evergreen in the middle of a park could be, but he didn’t doubt that all lit up it would probably at least be very pretty. He walked around it a few times, giggling to himself all the while, hands deep in the pockets of his plain brown coat. “Funny way to celebrate a birthday,” he concluded after a few laps, still giggling. He composed himself - or tried to, anyway, still laughing on-and-off about his great escape and riding the adrenaline high from it - and turned to a woman next to him who was, by the looks of it, just trying to take a picture of the tree, its boughs starting to sparkle under the collecting ice. “‘Scuse me?” he asked, his voice sort of vaguely accented with a non-specific lilt that might have been Syrian, or maybe Egyptian, or ... “Sorry, are you from around here?”

“... Yes?” the woman answered cautiously.

“Didn’t want to disturb, but I’m new in town. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of Soho? I’m here to visit an old friend.”


	16. Ice Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/11 of the 'Happy Birthday Jesus' arc, which is absolutely bananas and will make no sense in terms of continuity probably so just enjoy it.

Aziraphale is busy: he is in the little kitchen in the bookshop - which is suddenly much bigger than it was an hour or so ago - and he is cooking. It’s early in the day yet, but he’s gotten a head start on all of the preparations, because there are quite a lot of them. Outside, the ice is tapping against the windows. Crowley is watching it with fixed discontent. 

“Awful weather,” he says, arms crossed over his chest and bundled up in a thick black sweater Aziraphale bought him for their anniversary. “And there’s people out in it - would you believe it? Must be shopping or something. Or possibly just deranged.”

“It is beastly,” Aziraphale agrees. “I’m sure if they could be inside somewhere, they would.” He looks up from his work - kneading a tremendous ball of dough - and frowns. “I do hope everyone is still able to make it to the show on time. They were all so excited.”

Crowley, who unbeknownst to Aziraphale had meticulously blessed all six tickets to  _ A Christmas Carol _ to ensure nothing would go awry and everyone would get there on time, regardless of Brian’s perpetual inherent tardiness or Newt’s bloody car, says, “Oh, they’ll be alright. It’s not  _ that _ bad.”

“I hope you’re right.” He returns to the dough. Crowley leaves him to it for a while, before he finally makes a disapproving noise and turns from the window, meandering over to where Aziraphale is still kneading.

The demon looks over the counter, strewn with various ingredients, and asks, “Alright, what do you need me to do?”

Aziraphale pauses long enough to survey the ingredients he’s laid out, and to rub his nose with the back of his arm, scratching an itch that had, as is traditional, only appeared once his hands were busy and covered in sticky dough, rendering him unable to scratch it*. “I … think I actually have all of this in-hand, at the moment. Ah, you could set up the table? It’s back in the old store-room, I thought just in the center of the shop would be alright for it.”

[*  _ Even angels are not immune to this unique phenomenon _ .]

“What, drag it out there all by myself?” Crowley groans. “It’s heavy.”

Aziraphale frowns. “No, it isn’t. I’ve moved it myself dozens of times.”

“Yes, but that’s  _ you _ .” Aziraphale watches him patiently, kneading away, until Crowley throws his hands up and says, “Okay! Fine. Fine. But if I throw my back out, you have to fix it.”

Aziraphale asks, mildly, “With a miracle or should I rub it until it’s better?” Crowley blushes, and the angel grins. “I thought so. Off you trot.”

Crowley waits until he is around the corner and out of sight before he grumbles, “ _ Off you trot _ ,” in a rather insulting tone of voice. “ _ Oh, it’s not that heavy, probably only four million stone, just pick it up and put your knees into it, dear boy. _ ” He shoulders open the door to the back store room. “I don’t  _ have _ knees really, does he ever think about that? I have to imagine them every hour of every day and this is the thanks I get?  _ Angels _ .” He stands at the entryway to the room and glares at the table as if it, personally, is at fault. “Right, you better not be as heavy as you look.”

The table, which had been around Aziraphale long enough to learn what’s good for it, obliges and reduces its weight to a do-able three stone in spite of being carved from solid oak. It even temporarily shortens its legs, just to make transport through the door less cumbersome. Crowley is able to, with a minimum of complaining, lift the table and angle it through the doorway, sliding it gingerly across the shop’s old floorboards until it’s clear of the doorframe. Cautiously, he tugs the table through the shop and to the central area, careful not to disturb the rug over the Heavenly sigils. 

Once upright, Crowley studies his work, fiddling with it this way and that until it’s suitably centered to his eye. Satisfied, he heads back to the store room to retrieve the chairs, which are likewise set into place just so. Also in the store room is a small arsenal of cleaning supplies - a new addition since Crowley had begun to spend more time in the shop - and he occupies himself with polishing the table. From the kitchen, there is the sound of chopping, while outside the sleet still raps against the windows. The streets are looking considerably more empty than they were before, almost abandoned in the early afternoon despite the chronological proximity to Christmas. 

And suddenly, from the door, comes the sound of knocking. Crowley doesn’t bother to look. “It says closed,” he calls. The knocking persists, and he repeats himself, louder this time. He hears Aziraphale’s chopping falter, too, but the angel doesn’t appear. And still, the knocking continues.

With a snarl, Crowley crosses the shop floor and yanks the door open. “I  _ said _ -” he starts, but the words die on his tongue. A very,  _ very _ familiar, friendly face smiles up at him, fuller and happier than the last time he saw it, 2000 years ago. “ _ Yeshua _ ?”

“Crowley!” the young man - Yeshua, Joshua, Jesus, whatever - says jovially. “Long time, no see!”

“Ye … uh, yeah. Um. Are you - what … what?”

Yeshua laughs. “Silver-tongued as ever, I see. Hey, would you mind letting me in? The weather’s disgusting and it’s supposed to be my birthday. Unless you don’t have any room at the inn,” he adds, with a spark of mischief in his eye. 

A fraction of a second later, and Yeshua finds that the demon has grabbed the front of his shirt and is hauling him bodily into the shop, slamming the door closed behind them. “What are you  _ doing _ here?” Crowley hisses. “It’sss not the second coming, isss it? Already? We jusst went through thisss.”

Yeshua lets out an easy laugh. “Nope. Just gave old Raziel the slip and figured I’d see what my favorite Tempter of Man is up to. And I haven’t been to Earth in ages - I’ve missed it. And since it’s supposed to be my birthday and all -  _ whuf _ .” He finds himself pulled into a fierce hug, and after a moment returns it. “Glad to see you again, Crowley.”

“They treating you alright Up There?” Crowley asks quietly, arms still wrapped around the Son of God. “Gabriel’s not been -”

Yeshua gives Crowley an extra squeeze, before he slaps him on the back and pulls away, leaving one hand on the demon’s shoulder. “Aside from keeping me in the same place all the time to avoid this whole situation? Yeah, it’s fine. Gabriel steers clear.” He snorts. “You can bet he’s out looking for me now, though. Good thing you guys have this place warded to the teeth; he’ll never find me. Mind if I crash here for a few days?”

“Yeah, we - what? You want to stay?” He glances around, suddenly nervous. “I mean … the wards are great, but Gabriel -”

Yeshua scoffs. “Please, I had to ask a woman how to get here, and I think the only reason I could see the place was because she gave me directions. Gabriel’s never gonna find it.” He looks around. “It’s a nice place. I mean, I don’t want to impose - if you and Aziraphale don’t want me here then I get it, I’ll try to find somewhere else.”

“Crowley?” Belatedly, Crowley realizes the sound of chopping has stopped, and then Aziraphale appears from between the shelves, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Was there someone at the do -  _ oh, Jesus _ !”

“Hi, Aziraphale!” Yeshua says with a wave. “Nice to see you again!”

“Is it the second coming?” Aziraphale asks urgently. “It’s not -”

“Nah,” Yeshua says with a laugh. “Like I told him - him these days, yeah? Yeah - I just gave Raziel the slip and figured I’d come down to Earth to like, actually celebrate my birthday for once! Everybody’s been partying it up all these years, but in Heaven it’s all hymns and Julie Andrews and none of the rest of the fun stuff.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks to Crowley, who shrugs. “I suppose that makes sense. Ah … does anybody else … ?”

“Know I’m here? No one. Was kind of counting on your wards to keep it that way, until I’m ready to go back.” A little twist of worry crosses his face, fleeting but present. “I … I mean, I don’t want to be rude but I was hoping I could spend a couple of days here, just through the holiday, and I promise I’ll go back at the end of it all. I just am kind of … well, Heaven’s sort of lonely -”

Aziraphale suddenly snaps into action. “Of course it is, dear boy, of course it is. Here, come and sit down. Can I get you something to drink? I’m sure you must be thirsty. I could do cocoa - it goes down wonderfully on cold days, I think you’ll like it, or tea if that’s too sweet, or I think Crowley would be willing to share his coffee -”

“Oh, yeah,” says Crowley, a little dazed, tagging along behind while Aziraphale ushers Yeshua through the shop and into the back room. Aziraphale takes Yeshua’s coat and hands it to Crowley, who drapes it over his arm with little consideration of what to do with it next. “Angel,” he says quietly, but Aziraphale is still talking, offering snacks now and books to read, or maybe television to watch, or just chatting to catch up. He doesn’t even appear to notice so Crowley repeats, louder, “Angel?”

“ _ Yes _ , Crowley?” Aziraphale asks rather pointedly, coming to a stop in his litany of snack and beverage offerings. Crowley gapes at the two of them, blankly, Aziraphale’s face arranged into an expression of polite annoyance and Yeshua grinning like anything.

_ But the Antichrist is going to be here in six hours _ , Crowley wants to say.  _ But there are going to be six people, one of whom is the Antichrist, staying here tonight. But I already don’t know how you’re going to do that, and this is the Son of God, who we probably shouldn’t make sleep on a couch. But Gabriel is after him, sniffing around, and I know the wards are good but are they that good? But _ … 

Aziraphale cocks his head, while Yeshua just smiles. “Crowley?”

Crowley swallows, speechless, and manages to lift the coat up demonstratively. “Where uh … coat rack?”

“If you please.” And just like that, Aziraphale turns away, ushering Yeshua into the kitchen and explaining all of the different types of tea available, and the particular nuances of each variety. Crowley watches them go and decides, in that moment, that whatever the Heaven is happening is now at least 50% Aziraphale’s problem, which means that Crowley is only 50% responsible for figuring out what on Earth they’re going to do about this logistically. It makes him feel better - sort of, not really - and he turns on his heel, taking the coat back to the rack, pumping a little extra power into the wards as he goes. Just in case.

The ice rattles against the windows, the storm rages on and, improbably, there is a rumble of thunder and in Convent Garden a single, isolated bolt of lightning.


	17. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3/11 of the "Happy Birthday Jesus" sub-series. Where is this going in terms of plot? I have no idea. Jesus has taken the wheel.

Things had, in the intervening hours, calmed down slightly. Aziraphale had settled Yeshua in with cocoa and apple slices in the back room, Crowley had had a very quiet panic attack and lapped the bookstore once, ensuring the wards that kept prying eyes turned away from the windows were definitely good to go, and Yeshua, for his credit, had not said a word about it. It was only when Crowley settled onto the couch, coffee mug gripped in both hands and one leg bouncing nervously, that he spoke.

“Crowley,  _ promise _ you aren’t in danger with me being here.” He looked a little amused, but mostly apologetic. “I know it’s … well, I know it stretches the bounds of credulity, but I swear I wouldn’t have come here if I thought it was going to put you in any danger. Either of you.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Crowley replied quickly. “No, I know. It’s just … Gabriel out and around, the Son hanging out with a demon again after slipping away, Aziraphale not turning either of us in straight away …” he trailed off. 

Yeshua nodded. “Understood. But no harm will come to either of you. Besides, Gabriel is just one of the Archangels - I don’t think you have as much to be concerned about with some of the others.”

Crowley thought of Uriel and Michael, both present at the executions. He shifted. “No?”

“Nah. I mean, probably not Raphael, wherever she is these days, since she’s sort of gone hands-off after the whole Fall thing.” He shrugged. “But Sachiel and Jophiel … they’re alright.” He watched Crowley fidget a little, and sighed. “I can go -”

Crowley startled. “No, no. No. Stay.” He took a sip of coffee. “It’ll be fine. We’re fine. It’s all fine.”

Yeshua snorted. “I don’t remember you being this nervous, before.”

“I wasn’t,” Crowley replied honestly. “I mean, think about it: what’d I have to lose, back then? I guess theoretically you could have smote me,  _ in theory, _ but even with Legion you just threw them into some pigs and discorporated them. But now …” He glanced toward the kitchen.

“Uh-huh. I get it.” Yeshua sat back and nursed his cocoa for a few sips, before he said, “I’m happy for you both. But man, you took your time about it, didn’t you?”

“Than - what?” Crowley scowled. “It wasn’t  _ that easy _ .”

“Crowley.” Yeshua snorted, and pointed toward the ceiling and, rather more metaphorically, higher than that. “I know things, alright? I saw the  _ entire _ tenth century, and then the fourteenth. And then you  _ just so happened _ to move to Wessex at the same time.” He laughed. “Gregoriel and I have been keeping tabs on you for  _ centuries _ . You’ve never met Gregoriel - you’d like her, I think, she’s alright. She keeps me posted on stuff I miss when I’m, you know, supposed to be appearing in toast or something.”

“Cheek.” But Crowley was smiling a little, and his eyes weren’t darting from window-to-window anymore. “S’that really you in all the baked goods?”

“It was  _ one time _ .” Yeshua hunched down in the chair a little and muttered, “I thought it’d be funny.”

Crowley smirked. “You weren’t wrong.” There was silence for a few seconds, and then the demon took a deep, unnecessary breath, and let it out with a groan. “Alright. If Aziraphale’s not worried, I’m not gonna worry either. Try not to.”

“Good.” Yeshua sat up, glancing toward the main room of the shop. “So when I came in, I saw a tree. May I … ?”

“What, look at it? Sure.” Crowley hauled himself upright. “I’ll go with you, even, ‘f you give me a second to get a refill.” The young man indicated that yes, no problem, and Crowley slipped into the kitchen to top off his coffee and, after a moment of careful consideration, add a healthy amount of whiskey to it. Aziraphale watched him, eyebrows raised. 

“Alright, dear boy?”

Crowley took a mouthful of his drink and shrugged. “Yeah. I think. I mean … these  _ are _ good wards. Right? They -” He stopped, mostly because Aziraphale had kissed him on the nose. “You think I’m worrying too much, don’t you?”

“They are  _ very _ good wards. Gabriel will never be any the wiser, as long as Yeshua stays within the walls of the shop.”

“Right. Right, but what if he comes looking?” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, if he tracks Yeshua to London, and he  _ knows _ about the shop, and -”

“Then we very politely say ‘I’m sorry, terrible to hear that, no idea where he is, could you use a hand looking?’ And then he will be so mortified by the very idea that he will leave, and we won’t see him again for another six or so years.” He waved the knife around vaguely, indicating the walls of the shop. “With everything here, Gabriel will be lucky to detect  _ us _ in here - he may think the shop’s been abandoned altogether. He certainly won’t be able to detect anyone else. And even if he  _ does _ , if he has any ill-intent you know he won’t be able to enter until we grant him entry.” Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, these wards  _ work _ . Have done for 200 years.”

“They never kept me out,” he grumbled in response.

Aziraphale shrugged and said, “Because I didn’t really want them to. Don’t worry - everything will be fine. So go explain to Yeshua why we’ve drug a conifer indoors to celebrate his birthday five months late.”

Crowley nodded, turned to go, and then paused halfway. “Why …  _ do _ we do that?”

“I have no idea. Make something up.” He started in on dicing an onion. “It probably involved alcohol.”

“Fair enough, I guess. Right.” He tugged at his sweater a few times, fiddled with the hem, and muttered, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Once he returned to the back room, Yeshua looked up from the book he’d been examining and smiled. “Feel better?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Were you eavesdropping? Not very Christ-like of you, hm?”

“Wouldn’t have been, if I had done.” Crowley started walking out of the back room and toward the tree, and Yeshua fell into step beside him. It was oddly familiar, although this time the desert and the persistent grumbling of Yeshua’s Earthly stomach were absent. “But I didn’t. I’m just not totally oblivious.” He shrugged. “I never said it was a bad thing. Like I said: I’m happy for you.”

Crowley swallowed and glanced away for a second in response to that, but didn’t speak. Instead, he gestured to the tree. “There you are: tree. Big pine thing. Maybe a spruce. I’m not sure, honestly - Aziraphale was in charge of that.”

Yeshua nodded and then began to circle the tree - this one much smaller than the one in Trafalgar Square, although much fuller and more decorated - with an appraising eye. “Fir. Concolor - you can tell from the citrus smell, you know? It’s good and strong, too, and fairly rot-resistant, but a real bear to work on with hand tools. Now a good power saw, that’s the ticket.”

Crowley stared at him. “Still a carpenter, huh? And what do you mean  _ power saws _ ? I distinctly recall there was no such thing in turn-of-the-century Galilee.”

“I have a whole workshop Upstairs.” He shrugged. “I told you they’re not treating me badly. Uriel even did her best to keep me from getting bored with a stereo, of all things. And Gregoriel sent me a few collections of these things called Vines? I’m not sure they’re kosher so no one else knows, but they’re for sure funny.”

“So you’ve been watching Vines and spying on Earth,” Crowley said flatly.

“Pretty much. And making puzzle boxes.” He reached out for one of the ornaments on the tree. “But the whole Christmas thing is  _ so weird _ . I must have missed the start of it all, maybe I was looking somewhere else. Why the tree?”

Crowley considered all of the possible explanations: fertility ritual, a plea for a bountiful harvest, a reminder of spring to come. And yet he settled on, “I have no idea. Seemed like a good idea at the time to someone, I suppose. I think it was a pagan thing first? Something about keeping away evil spirits, maybe? Always very big, the need to keep away evil spirits back then.”

“It’s really effective.” Yeshua grinned. “Look at it: repelling you like anything.”

Crowley sniffed. “It’s prickly.”

“There you go: evil spirit repellent. Why the decorations?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, after he gulped down a mouthful of coffee, the better to grin, “I know that one. It’s to celebrate The Lord.” 

Yeshua blinked at him for a moment, incredulous, and then held a single ornament aloft. It was a glitter-encrusted banana, which Crowley recognized only by virtue of its garish appearance and the fact that he had purchased it because he found it hilarious. “This is to celebrate The Lord? The most Holy and Highest?”

“And that little felt mouse with the flag that says ‘Beans on Toast’, yeah. All of ‘em. Celebrating you like anything.” He raised his mug. “Mazel.”

“Uh-huh.” Yeshua nodded sagely, and replaced the banana. “Is it just me or has society gotten significantly weirder since I died?”

Crowley strolled around the tree to stand next to him. “You had nothing to do with it: humans have been trying to get weird since Creation. They haven’t gotten more or less weird, just different over time, I think.”

“Maybe.” He reached up and pulled from some of the higher boughs a more delicate ornament: crafted from popsicle sticks, the Star of David, decorated with glitter and sequins. “Correct me if I’m wrong but this is for a different holiday, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley admitted, “but it’s not like the tree itself is a distinctly Christian thing, is it? I mean it is  _ technically _ , but like you said, it’s not got much to do with the actual holiday itself. An’ anyway,” he added, a little defensively, “one of the kids wanted Aziraphale to have it. It looks nice up there.”

Yeshua said, “Ah, yes. The kids. Those would be the Antichrist and his three friends, yes?”

Crowley stumbled over own thoughts for a minute, but after being tongue-tied for a few seconds he said, “Yeah. Those’re the Them.”

“I saw Them during the Armageddon event - they seem like nice kids, really.” He smiled. “I wish I could meet Adam, honestly, but if I leave here Gabriel will find me.” Resigned, Yeshua heaved a sigh. “Another time, maybe.”

The demon checked his watch, and raised an eyebrow. “Does four hours from now count?” Yeshua looked up, and he chuckled a little. “They’re coming over tonight, the lot of ‘em: the kids, Anathema, Newt. They headed to a show this afternoon, an’ Isabella Beeton in there invited them all over for dinner and to stay the night afterwards. 

“You’re serious? Gosh, that’d be … well, but then I don’t want to intrude.” He hung the Star back on the tree, the better to gnaw at his thumbnail. “I’m sorry to have such terrible timing, I could go -”

“ _ No _ , for the last time, you’re not going anywhere.” Crowley rolled his eyes, and swept an arm out, indicating the interior of the shop. “Plenty of space in here, and the weather’s awful besides. Aziraphale is making  _ plenty  _ of food, and I can’t imagine it’ll matter, you and Adam being in the same place at the same time. He’s not really the Antichrist anymore, anyway. Turned it down, didn’t he? Probably nothing will explode.”

The Son of God stared at him for a second, before bursting into laughter. “I didn’t say I was afraid someone would explode! I just don’t want to intrude - six people is a lot, and i don’t know how many beds you have -”

“Enough. Miraculously, if need be.” Crowley sighed, resigned, and offered a tired shrug. “What the Hell, right? It’s Christmas.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“You will not. The couch?  _ Please _ , Yeshua. We can at least manage a futon.” They laughed at that, relaxed and easy, and when they both trailed off, a few stray giggles breaking through here and there, Yeshua turned his attention back to the tree. Slowly, he pulled another ornament down: a chicken nugget, wearing a Santa hat, also bedecked in glitter. 

“Is this also to celebrate The Lord?”

“Oh, for sure.”

Yeshua watched Crowley carefully, mouth carefully set into a thin line. “What about a chicken nugget in a festive hat honors The Lord?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s -” 

“Crowley! A hand, if you would!”

“Ah,” said Crowley, stepping away lithely with a mock bow aimed in Yeshua’s direction, “do excuse me. That’s my cue.”

Yeshua frowned. “Wait, hang on, you have to - wait!” He brandished the nugget. “What does this have to do with anything? How is this  _ relevant _ ?” But Crowley, already out of sight around the bookshelves, snickering all the way, did not answer. Bewildered, Yeshua held the nugget up to eye level and stared at it for a minute, before looking back to the bedecked tree and the cold, staring eyes of an embroidered portrait of Nicholas Cage. He shot a dirty look in the direction of the kitchen, took a resentful sip of his slowly-cooling tea, and muttered, “I don’t care what he says: the species is getting weirder by the hour.”


	18. Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm falling a bit behind due to family events, but i'm still going! here's the 18th, a few days late - enjoy!

Hours passed. Crowley took a breath, and then another and, gradually, either the deep breathing exercises, reassurances from Yeshua and Aziraphale, the lack of Sudden Gabriel, or the whiskey (or perhaps some combination of all of the preceding), brought him back down to Earth. Or, at least, down enough to lounge in a chair while Aziraphale baked and Yeshua, who had spent the past 2000 years doing woodworking and spying on humanity, studied the process.

“Do they not have cookies in Heaven?” Crowley asked idly, while the other two debated whether or not a bath of oatmeal raisin was worth the effort. “People love cookies - biscuits, whatever, I don’t know - so you’d think they would.”

Yeshua offered a one-shouldered shrug, otherwise occupied with mixing the dough for what would become chocolate chip. “They might. I never really eat there - it doesn’t taste right, for some reason. Well.” He considered it. “Nichiel brings me stuff sometimes, but that’s from Earth. And Elijah said even Heavenly food tastes amazing, if you believe in the power of the Almighty and throw a little imagination into it. Belief is no problem, but I guess my imagination isn’t up to it. The only things that taste right are things I’ve eaten before - stuff I remember  _ actually _ tasting.”

Crowley who, eons ago, had had a particular quibble with the quality of the manna, thought about that. “Huh.”

“Anyway,” Yeshua went on, still stirring dutifully even as he used his free hand to dump in the entire bag of chocolate chips, “I’ve never had biscuits. So I never really noticed, I guess.”

“Well I should hope you eat some today,” Aziraphale said as he measured out dollops of dough onto a baking sheet. “There will be more than enough.”

“Could even sneak some back in with you, when you go back,” Crowley pointed out. “Bit of crime, eh? Live dangerously, Yeshua.”

Yeshua laughed. “That didn’t work in the desert back then, and it won’t work now. Not that I don’t appreciate the effort.”

Crowley took a sip of coffee. “Can’t blame me for trying. Sssin my nature.”

Aziraphale and Yeshua, as one, stopped. Looked at Crowley. Looked at one another. Slowly, Aziraphale asked, “Was that … did you just try to make a pun?”

Crowley quickly became very occupied with inspecting the tabletop. “Maybe,” he muttered.

“I think,” the angel said then, after a beat of silence. He hummed, turned away, and measured out another dollop of dough. “I think -”

“It was awful,” Yeshua supplied helpfully. “Very terrible.”

“Bit judgy of you,” Crowley sniped. “Don’t you think?”

If Yeshua was going to mount a reply to that - and he certainly looked like he might, squaring up his shoulders and opening his mouth to speak - Aziraphale cut him off. The angel deftly plucked the well-mixed bowl of dough out of Yeshua’s hands, set it aside, and exchanged it for another bowl of already-mixed dough. “Crowley,” he said, sliding the first batch of biscuits into the oven, “the show should have let out about thirty minutes ago; I’d imagine everyone will be here shortly. Would you be so good as to wait in the front room for them to arrive? It’s still terrible outside, I’d hate for them to be left waiting.”

Crowley frowned. “I’m being punished, aren’t I? This is punishment.” Yeshua nodded, although Aziraphale didn’t respond. “ _ Pun _ -ished?” Crowley suggested, his mug held in front of himself like a tartan-printed shield.

“Please leave and think about your use of the English language,” Aziraphale said a bit more forcefully, his voice raised to be heard over Yeshua’s pained groaning. Crowley snickered, grabbed up a dough-caked spoon, and spun toward the entryway of the kitchen with rather more panache than strictly required. 

“Fine,” he called, as he sauntered out. “Kick me out for now - I’ll be back. I always come back.”

-

The sleet was driving. The Them, along with Anathema and Newt, soldiered through it toward the bookshop, which was blessedly close, hoods pulled low over their faces and coats buttoned as tightly as possible. The show had been wonderful but unfortunately the walk to AZ Fell’s was less so, and Brian was making his feelings about it known. 

“Can’t you, I dunno, do something?” he muttered to Adam in between a litany of complaints about the cold. “Like how Aziraphale and Crowley always stay dry when it rains, even if they don’t have an umbrella.”

“Dunno,” Adam replied, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “But I wouldn’t even if I could. Don’t wanna do any messin’ about.”

Pepper chimed in with “Besides, we’re almost there anyway. S’just around the next corner. See?”

Brian mumbled a bit more, something about not really doing any messing about if it’s just making sure rain doesn’t fall in a little spot, but he kept his voice low. Wensleydale might have heard him, walking as close as he was, but if he did, he didn’t say anything in reply.

Anathema reached the doors of the bookshop first, and jogged up the stairs to knock. She raised her hand, Newt drawing even with her, and - 

And the doors opened of their own accord. Because of course they did. Adam sighed. If anything, the two entities were reliable.

The first thing they noticed, as they stepped inside, was that it was  _ warm _ . Warm, and dry, and smelling of old books and, more immediately, fresh cookies. Adam sniffed the air appreciatively as they shucked their coats and shoes by the door, leaving them neatly organized on the rubber mat. Next to the mat were their overnight bags, likewise neatly lined up, and Adam frowned.

“Did you drop those off earlier?” he asked Newt, pointing to the bags. “I thought we left them in your car.”

Anathema shrugged. “We did. Crowley!” This, in response to the appearance of the demon from behind a bookshelf. He had a mug in-hand and was looking, as ever, relentlessly cool. “Nice table!”

“This old thing?” He nudged the leg of the enormous dining table with the tip of his shoe. “Yeah. It’s Aziraphale’s. No one froze to death, huh?”

“Almost,” Brian grumbled. 

Crowley nodded, but Adam could tell from the jump that something was … not right. Not wrong either, exactly, but Crowley had that look about him that he got sometimes when he felt like he needed to say something nice but was not really sure how he could say it. “That’s great. Listen, ah, before you all come in any more, I want to let you know we’ve got … another guest for dinner.”

That was all it took to set Adam’s heart thumping. Who? Another demon, or another angel, maybe the two from the airfield. Was Aziraphale OK? The bookshop looked fine, Crowley looked fine, but another guest -

“No one bad,” Crowley said quickly, and Adam tried to take a little breath. To his right, Pepper glanced over at him and then, wordlessly, wrapped her hand around his. “Just unexpected. Er, I’m sure you know him by reputation, but he’s an old friend, he’s alright, I’ll introduce you all.”

Anathema and Newt exchanged a look for a second, before Anathema looked back to Crowley, resigned, and sighed. “What kind of supernatural entity? Chimera? Sphinx? Something less exciting?”

“Nah, human. Mostly.” He perched on the edge of the table, still half-standing, and sipped at his drink. “I know it was supposed to be just us, but he’s a friend, and it  _ is _ his birthday.”

Brian, who had lost interest as soon as Crowley said the guest was human, paused in his stride. He’d managed to creep halfway to the backroom, clearly angling for the kitchen and the biscuits. “Birthday?”

“Yep.” And now Crowley was looking at Adam and Adam alone, watching the young boy’s face very carefully. Adam put his head to the side, confused.

“It stinks to have a birthday at Christmas,” Pepper said with disdain. “My friend Billie’s birthday is the week after Christmas and she never gets any proper birthday gifts. Or a proper party. It’s always lumped in with Christmas or New Years’. So sometimes she has a party in the summer for her half-birthday.”

Adam realized Anathema was watching him, too. He swallowed. “Unless your birthday is Christmas. Known him long, have you?”

“A while,” Crowley replied evenly, inclining his head in a slight nod to Adam. “Alright, Adam?”

Pepper squeezed his hand. “I’d imagine having Christmas as your birthday would be even worse,” she said. “At least Billie’s parents sometimes tried to have a real party for her, not just a Christmas party.”

Wensley, a bright boy, was glancing back and forth between Crowley, Anathema, and Adam. “Actually …” he said slowly, and Adam glanced over to him for a minute, wide-eyed. He swallowed as Wensley continued: “Actually, a Christmas birthday is probably fairly cool if like, your birthday is  _ the actual Christmas _ .”

Newt’s lips moved slightly as he tried to puzzle it out. Anathema put her hand on Adam’s shoulder. Brian blinked, and then shrugged and started heading for the kitchen again. And Pepper, her hand still wrapped around Adam’s, said, “No that’s what I was saying, if you’d just -  _ wait _ .” She looked at Adam quickly, shocked, and then back at Crowley. “You’re not saying that  _ actual Christmas _ is the birthday?”

“Technically, his birthday is in July,” the demon said, by way of an answer. “He goes by Yeshua, by the way. Jesus is a mistranslation.”

“Wait. Wait.” Newt raised a hand to his temple. “ _ Actual _ Jesus? He’s here?”

“Yes.” From the kitchen, sounds of Brian and Aziraphale greeting one another and a third, unfamiliar voice joining in made Adam start. “And before you ask: no, this isn’t a normal thing for us. We were as surprised as anybody. Pleasantly, but …”

Adam shifted nervously from foot-to-foot. “Um. Is … should I … Like, is he going to be okay with … ?” He never actually finished the sentence, but Crowley must have derived his meaning well enough anyway. 

“He will be very much okay, I promise.”

“Only I’m, well, I know what happened and what I said but I’m still, like the whole thing and -” he swallowed and tried to fight back the tears welling up in his eyes. Pepper squeezed his hand, Anathema his shoulder, and Newt and Wensley drew in around him. Crowley slid off the table and came over, hands in his pockets, and bent down just a little - not much at all, anymore, not since the growth spurt Adam had gone through a year or two after the Nahmageddon - to look him in the eye, over the rims of his glasses. “I’m gonna be okay?” Adam asked, not crying, definitely not crying, but with a distinct quiver in his voice.

“You’ll be fine. Trust me, alright? Look at me.” He gestured to himself. “Actual demon, spent forty days in the desert getting after him to turn from God, and I’m still here, eh?” 

Over their heads, Anathema and Newt exchanged bewildered expressions. “That was him?” Newt asked, pointing surreptitiously to Crowley. Anathema shrugged. 

“I … guess?” Adam said, cocking his head to one side. “But the stories about purging the demons and the pigs and that?”

Crowley snorted. “Well, yeah, but Legion is a) an idiot and b) was possessing someone at the time. You’re not possessing anyone, you’re a good kid, and Yeshua’s honestly pretty cool with most things. You haven’t sold anything in a church recently, have you?”

Adam blanched. “I was helping mum with the bake sale -”

“Kidding, Adam, I’m kidding. You will be fine. We’ll all go in together, alright?” He straightened up and, after a moment’s thought, ruffled Adam’s hair. “Stick behind me, if it makes you feel better.”

Anathema and Crowley glanced at one another, and she shook the boy’s shoulder a little. “I’m right here, okay, Adam? I’ll stick with you, too.”

“And us,” Pepper added, and for some reason that made Adam feel better than anything else. “‘F he tries to hurt you, I’ll punch him. Don’t care who he is.” 

“Please don’t punch Jesus,” Wensley said with a tired sigh. “I think … Well, actually, Mr. Crowley is probably right, Adam.”

“Probably,” Crowley agreed with a snort. “Yes, very probably. Come on, alright? Aziraphale’s in there too, and you know he won’t let anything happen to you. They were making cookies - can you believe Yeshua never had cookies?”

Adam frowned. “When did cookies get invented?”

Wensley, of course, had an answer. “Actually, they weren’t even invented until the seventh or eighth century CE, when sugar became more widely available in the middle east. And even then, they weren’t common in England for another few centuries. Right, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley, who had been silently leading them through the shop during Wensley’s miniature informational announcement, nodded. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. Whatever you say. Can never remember much about food, me. You could ask Aziraphale though: he’d definitely remember.” He knew, and Adam knew, and everyone knew, when Crowley suggested this, that Wensley would not do so, mostly because Aziraphale’s memory was less bound to specific dates and times and more to who and where he was when the event in question occurred. Which was alright, when it was a major event or historical figure: you could derive from the context when things might have happened. But in terms of the first cookie the angel remembered, Wensley knew full well he was most likely to get some kind of story about a lovely woman in rural Spain or something that Aziraphale stayed with for a night or two, or some other vague story that would not, chronologically, be very clear at all. Resigned, the boy simple nodded, and decided that in spite of knowing two timeless immortal beings, he would still have to accept whatever his  _ History of Cookery _ book put forth as fact.

When they traipsed through the back room and rounded the corner to the small kitchen - much larger now, which was typical of Aziraphale - Adam tried to take a deep breath and ignore the hammering of his heart in his chest. Once in the entryway, still flanked by Pepper and Anathema, Crowley ahead and Wensley and Newt behind, he stopped. 

Jesus -  _ Yeshua _ , Adam reminded himself firmly - was … well, not what the stained glass windows at church depicted, that was for sure. He was short, and stocky, and dark-skinned with a beard and curly dark hair that he’d pulled back. He was, Adam noticed, also smiling widely. 

“Cookies are great!” he announced, when the group arrived. “Hello, also!”

Crowley smirked. “Told you you’d like them. Anyway,” he stepped halfway to the side, “this is Yeshua, everyone. Probably know him as Jesus -”

“Yeah, Yeshua’s fine, though.”

“Right, and then Yeshua, this’s Anathema, Newt, Pepper, Wensley, and Adam.” He pointed to each of them in turn. Behind Yeshua, Brian made a cheeky grab for a dough-encrusted spoon, only to be gently shoved aside by Aziraphale who, to be fair, only looked mildly annoyed with the intrusion. 

Yeshua nodded to them. “Very nice to meet all of you. Cookies?”

“Don’t eat them all  _ now _ ,” Aziraphale scolded. “They’re supposed to be for after dinner.”

“Just a taste,” the young man said easily, picking up the plate and coming around the counter to offer everyone their choice. Adam looked to Crowley, but the demon just nodded a little, encouraging, and stepped aside.

Adam opened his mouth to say ‘thank you’, one hand hovering over the cookies. But maybe it was because he was thinking so hard about not trembling, or maybe it was just the way Yeshua was smiling, that open, honest smile, or maybe it was just the certainty that at some point he would be found out, and something terrible would ensue. Maybe it was any of those things, or all three, but when Adam opened his mouth to say ‘thank you’, what came out was a half-blurted, “I’m the Antichrist!”

Silence fell over the kitchen. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look: Aziraphale’s expression reading ‘I thought you told him’, and Crowley’s returned shrug communicating, ‘I did, but what can you do?’. The rest just stared at Yeshua and Adam, frozen like that with a plate of cookies between them. It was only a second or two - barely any time at all - but it felt like an age until Yeshua said, slowly, “Yeah. I know. Cookie?”

“You don’t care?” Adam asked after another long second in which his mouth fell open. “You - it’s okay?”

“Sure it is. Not like you picked it, anyway.” Yeshua shrugged. “Come on, they’re great, these are sugar and those have chocolate in them.”

“Chocolate chip,” Brian supplied helpfully from his place by the sink, where he was deftly intercepting any dirty dishes with tasty-looking food residue on them. 

“... Okay.” Warily, Adam plucked a chocolate chip cookie from the plate. Satisfied, the Son of God moved on, making sure everyone had their pick from the plate, before turning away to take the plate back, sparing a wink at Adam as he went. Adam frowned around his mouthful of cookie - it was  _ really _ good - and Pepper noticed, squeezing his hand. Gradually, Anathema and Newt drifted away, although they stayed close with Crowley as they struck up a conversation with Yeshua. Wensley joined Brian by the sink, ostensibly helping Aziraphale (but realistically getting underfoot).

“You gonna be okay?” she asked, in a low voice. “I think he’s alright, but are you?”

Adam thought about it. “I think so,” he said at last. “I think … I think so.” He looked to her. “I think … I wanna talk to him more, though.”

“Obviously,” she scoffed. “I was hoping you would. He prob’ly can help you loads, I’ll bet. Closest thing you have to someone like you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Adam, because he had been thinking just precisely that. “‘Cept he like … didn’t do what I did.”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “But still. An’ he seems really nice. I mean, I’d hope he did, right? It’d be weird if he was mean, all the stuff written about him.” She put her head to one side. “You want me to stay with you?”

“N … Actually?” He swallowed, looking over to Yeshua and Anathema and Newt and Crowley. Anathema, Newt and Yeshua were laughing, but Crowley was watching him too, quiet and calm, leaned against the wall. Adam nodded at him, and the gesture was returned. “Actually,” he said after he did, “yeah. D’you mind? Just for a bit.”

“‘Course not. I offered, didn’t I?” She glanced to the cookie plate, unguarded, because Aziraphale was busy fending Brian and Wensley off of the turkey, lecturing them on how eating the skin before it was ready would almost certainly given them deadly worms of some variety. Wensley, as ever, was arguing this point with relentless facts. “Mind if we get some cookies though?”

“Nah. I wanna try the sugar ones.”

She stepped forward, and tugged him along behind her. “Okay. Don’t be suspicious.”

“Don’t be suspicious,” he agreed, and stepped forward.


	19. Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made myself cry like twice writing this so idk that's why it took so long i guess. kind of intense chapter here, but promise the next few will be my typical Ridiculous AF

Miracle or no, the kitchen in the bookshop was a little small for nine people, especially when one of them was trying to cook. Gradually, everyone sort of filtered out to more comfortable quarters: the backroom was popular, Crowley and Anathema hashing out their upcoming movie schedule on the couch and Newt and Wensley scheming about how to move forward with the Them’s D&D campaign at the next session. Brian had elected to stay in the kitchen and was presumably helping with the cooking, but the occasional firm scolding that was audible from Aziraphale called that into question. Yeshua was in there too, and so Adam and Pepper, uncertain of what else to do, drifted out into the main shop, sitting across from each other at the old table, Adam with a soda and Pepper with a glass of water in-hand.

The cookies had been, of course, delicious, and had sparked a discussion between the teens that started with how baking actually works and had, at this point, wandered into a fierce debate about whether or not chemistry was inherently to be used for good or evil. Adam, who was not doing particularly well in chemistry, was on the side of chemistry being basically evil but with a capacity for good, and Pepper, who had an A in chemistry, was erring on the side of chemistry being inherently good with a capacity for evil in the wrong hands.

“All I’m saying,” Adam said sagely, studying the bubbles in his cola, “is you never see a chemist as the  _ good guy _ in movies, do you?”

“What? ‘Course you do!” Pepper looked offended. “What about  _ Flubber _ ? Or … or …” she floundered for a minute. “Or all the movies about monsters where the scientist saves the day! Like  _ The Andromeda Strain _ !” She definitely did not mention  _ Love Potion #9 _ , which she and Brian very much enjoyed, but which she would not admit, under pain of death, to ever watching. 

“Hm.” Adam looked unconvinced. “So that’s two. But then there’s lots where it’s the bad guy that’s the chemist - lends itself to chemistry being  _ bad _ , and sometimes people just accidentally do good things with it.”

Pepper bristled. “ _ The Andromeda Strain _ was not an  _ accident _ , they worked really hard!”

“No, I’m not saying they accidentally found the cure, I’m  _ saying _ it was just happy coincidence that the evil chemists did something good for once.”

“Why would they be trying to find a  _ cure _ if they were _ evil _ ? Adam Young, do you ever listen to what you say or are you just having me on?” She crossed her arms and glowered. “It better be the second one or I’m gonna come over there -”

“Violence? On Christmas?”

Pepper didn’t turn to look, still intent on glaring at Adam. So determined was she to continue her glaring that she didn’t really register the tone of voice behind her, or the way Adam’s half-cocked smirk melted away, replaced by a cowed expression. “It’s not even Christmas proper,” she said, waving a hand. “That’s in a few days and anyway, wasn’t Jesus’s  _ actual _ birthday in July?” She raised an eyebrow at Adam. “That’s what Wensley always says.”

“Dunno.” Adam swallowed. “You could always ask him.”

Realization dawned on Pepper’s face slowly, and she whirled around in her seat to find herself looking, wide-eyed and bashful, at The Son himself. “He’s right,” Yeshua said thoughtfully. “But I dunno. I like the novelty of a winter birthday. Not a lot of people from where I come from get to celebrate a proper winter birthday. Mind if I join you?”

As one, Adam and Pepper shook their heads slowly. Yeshua sat next to Pepper, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, one elbow propped on the back of the chair. It was a pose that was eerily reminiscent of Crowley, although on Yeshua it gave off more of an open, guidance counselor vibe than a coiled waiting serpent. 

“Sorry,” Pepper muttered. “Didn’t mean to offend you?”

“What? Why? It’s a valid point - on the current calendar my birthday  _ is _ in July.” He shrugged. “But like I said, the winter birthday thing is kind of fun. Entertaining, anyway. Think about it: I was born in summer in Galilee, where it’s hot as all get-out, and somehow everyone came to associate my birthday with snow and ice-skating and warm fireplaces and all of that. Not that I mind. Think I would have preferred it, honestly, had it been an option.”

Pepper frowned. “I don’t think people in Australia do. It’s summer, in Australia.”

“And South America,” Adam added quietly. “And Africa. Who southern hemisphere, actually.”

“Fair point.” He indicated the ongoing storm outside. “I guess the current weather distracted me. Forgive me.”

“S’okay.” The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Or, at least, uncomfortable for Adam, certainly, and Pepper only by extension of her friend’s discomfort. Yeshua appeared unperturbed, sipping at his cocoa casually. Pepper glanced between the two of them, cosmic opposites, and decided in a beat that she’d had quite enough of the silence.

“When you were alive,” she said to Yeshua, “did you ever see snow?”

If he was surprised by the question, Yeshua didn’t let on. “In Israel, no. I did when Crowley was trying to tempt me. She - he, now, I guess - took me all kinds of places to see if I would change my mind, turn away from the whole thing, you know? There was snow up there, on the mountain.”

Adam blinked. “So that really happened?” 

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, took me up onto this mountain where you could see all the kingdoms of the world, and then sort of ah … well, to put it in a modern sort of way we fast-traveled from one to the other. The whole time Crowley was like some kind of demonic real-estate agent, trying to get me to go for a new property away from the whole Son of God thing.” He laughed. “It was exactly like every episode of  _ House Hunters _ , but 2000 years early.”

Pepper, whose mother was very fond of real-estate and home-renovation shows, nodded and grinned. “Single man, religious leader and part-time carpenter, budget of eight billion dollars?”

Yeshua laughed. “Yes, exactly! Exactly that.” He sipped at his cocoa. “It was fun, but I’d made up my mind years before, and there wasn’t any number of rocks into loaves or snow-capped mountains or walk-in closets that would change my decision.”

Pepper laughed, and even Adam grinned a little, before his expression turned very serious indeed. “Um. Yeshua I …” He swallowed and peered nervously at his soda. “I, uh. Um.” He looked at Pepper, who didn’t need to be able to see under the table to know that Adam’s hands were in his lap, clenching and unclenching, like they always did when he was nervous. “Pep, do you mind giving me like - ?”

She watched him for a minute, and then nodded and picked up her glass. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

She stood, and looked from Adam to Yeshua, who raised his hands in submission. “I think I know what you’re thinking, Adam, and if you’d feel better with Ms Pepper here, I don’t mind.”

“No. No, it’s okay. I’m okay.” He smiled weakly at Pepper. “Ten minutes?”

“Okay.” She slid her mobile out of her pocket and checked the time. “Fine. Yell if you need anything sooner.” Slowly, glancing back over her shoulder at the two of them several times, she retreated, disappearing around the end of a bookshelf. As she did, Newt rounded the same shelf, clearly with a mind to join Adam and Yeshua at the table, but there was a hissed word of warning, and Pepper grabbed his sleeve, tugging him back behind the books with her.

Again, silence settled, broken by the murmur of activity in the back room and the kitchen, and the patter of ice and rain on the windows. “Do you hate me?” Adam blurted, after a long minute. Yeshua opened his mouth, and Adam cut him off. “And don’t say you don’t hate anyone, or anything about God not hating anybody, because that’s a cop-out.”

Yeshua considered that. “It is. But it’s true - there is no room for hate in God’s heart.” He smiled softly. “But I get the feeling you’re asking in the more human sense, yes? And in that case, the answer is also no.” He leaned forward, one elbow on the table and chin propped in his hand. “I saw the whole thing, Adam. I watched. And I … well, I was really proud of you.”

“You were?” He blinked, breath quickening. “But I didn’t … I mean, I didn’t do what I was supposed to do. And you did.”

“Yes, I did. Because I felt it was right. You did what you felt was right. And what you did was very brave. Can I tell you something?” Adam nodded. “You and me - we’re weird cases. You know that. And after everything - after I died, but before I rose again - I got to talk to Her.” He pointed upwards. “You know.” Adam nodded again, more emphatically, a tear rolling down his cheek. “And you know what She told me? She said that although what happened with me had to happen - no, I don’t know why, so don’t ask - She didn’t make it so I’d take the path I did. That was all me. And She said she would have understood whichever choice I made. I’m human, same as you are. And the biggest difference between Us and Them -” he inclined his head in the direction of the kitchen, where Crowley and Aziraphale presumably were, “- is that we  _ always _ have a choice. Those two, if She wills it,  _ have _ to obey. But even She can’t make us do anything.

“You and me, Adam, we had  _ big _ things put on our plates, through no choice of our own. Just born into it, right? And She understands that even with all that, even with  _ destiny _ or whatever you want to call it, we are humans. After birth, we can choose. She made angels to be certain things - obedient, yes, but also soldiers or messengers or creators - but She just made humans to be human. To choose.” Absently, he picked up a napkin and handed it over the table to Adam, who had more tears on his face now. “You always,  _ always _ had a choice. And I’d be lying if I said I would have been sad, or disappointed, or even angry if you’d chosen differently.” He snorted. “I am human, after all. So yeah, I was proud, and happy, and just amazingly … well, amazed when you chose what you did. You chose to be  _ you _ , with everything that entails. And turns out, it didn’t entail whatever The Great Plan might have dictated.” He tapped the handle of his mug. “Not to mention, it was pretty awesome, watching you shout Satan down.”

“It was terrifying,” Adam admitted, quietly. 

“I’ll bet it was. But you did it. And you stood by it. That takes something else, man.”

Adam nodded. “Same as you did.”

“Same as I did.”

“Did you ever wish it had been someone else?”

Yeshua nodded. “Frequently. But at the same time, well … alright, this makes me sound like kind of a tit, but at the same time I was  _ glad _ it was me. Because I  _ did _ make the choice I did, and I’m not sure what would have happened if someone else chose differently.”

Adam nodded, and for a long time he just stared at the table, one trembling finger tracing the grain of the wood. “Can I ask something else?”

“Sure.”

“You went to Heaven when you died, and they keep you there, right?” He looked up. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

“Oh.” Yeshua frowned, and looked out of the window, thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know, honestly. I … can see why you’re worried. Absolutely. But tell you what, you have some fans around, you know it? All on the side of the humans.” He gestured to himself. “Me, yeah, but Crowley and Aziraphale adore you, I’m sure you know it, and …” He glanced upwards. “Okay, don’t tell anyone I told you this, alright?”

“Okay.”

“She really likes you,” he whispered. “So no, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to you, but if I had to guess, Adam, as long as you keep doing you, well … I think She’ll make sure you’re alright.”

Adam blinked. “She does? But I’m … like, well, the Anti-Christ. Sort of.”

“So? She made all things, Adam, even you, and Lucifer, and all creatures great and small. She loves all of them. And if they follow Her directive to try to love as She does, She looks after them.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “And you love humanity and Earth  _ so much _ , Adam, that I watched you stand there and tell Gabriel and Beelzebub and  _ Lucifer _ to piss off with their Great Plan. So if you ask me, I think you’ll be alright.” He sat back. “And honestly? If you’re not, I think Crowley and Aziraphale and I will have something to say about it. And your friends, too.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Pepper had disappeared to, and pretended not to notice as she darted back behind the bookshop, like she hadn’t just been eavesdropping the entire time. “Pretty sure if you  _ don’t _ end up alright, we’re all gonna come get you until you are.”

Adam’s lip wobbled, and he bit back a choked little sob. “Yeah? Promise?”

“I mean, unless you decide to become a serial killer between now and whenever you die,” Yeshua amended. “As it stands at the moment, though, I think you’re doing pretty good on the cosmic scale.”

“Yeah?” Yeshua nodded, and Adam whimpered. “Sorry, I know we just met, but … could I, like, could I get a hug?”

“I love hugs, absolutely,” said Yeshua, and he was on Adam in a second, practically before the kid could stand up out of his chair. “You’re a good kid, Adam. Doesn’t matter what you were supposed to be, you became a good kid, alright?”

“Yeah,” Adam sobbed, not fighting it back anymore. “Yeah. I hope I am.”

“You are.”

They stood there for a long while, Adam crying and Yeshua following suit. It was a little awkward - they were nearly strangers, and nothing like strangers at all at the same time - and a little ungainly, with Adam standing nearly two inches taller than Yeshua and simultaneously trying to be much smaller, but it felt good. They held each other, polar opposites, cosmic opposites, an attempt at being so different that they ended up being the same. Pepper stood guard, fending off Newt, who was oblivious, Anathema, who felt that maybe Adam needed extra hugs, Crowley, who  _ insisted _ that this level of emotions probably required intervention although, when pressed couldn’t elaborate on what that meant, and Aziraphale, who wanted to make sure they both had cookies for when they were done. 

After a while - could have been a few minutes, could have been an hour, Adam sniffled and sighed. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Happy to do it, really. Could have used something like that myself, when I was your age, I think.”

Adam looked up. “You didn’t have anything similar?”

“Well …” He winced. “I did have Gabriel. Who told me to, and I quote, ‘Man up, this is a huge honor’.”

Adam frowned. “He’s the worst.”

“He really is.” And then they shared an awkward, wet little laugh, pulling apart and looking away, both swiping their faces dry with the backs of their sleeves. On the table, a little plate of cookies wafted the warm scent of fresh chocolate chip toward both of them. The looked at it, and laughed again.

“Definitely Aziraphale,” Adam said, taking a cookie.

“No doubt.”

As they chewed together, Adam still sniffling intermittently, the younger boy asked, thoughtfully, “Okay, so if the whole temptation thing was all true and not a metaphor -”

“Correct, yeah.”

“Then was there really a big feast at the end?”

Yeshua brightened. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, it was  _ amazing _ .”

Adam looked doubtful. “Did Gabriel make it?” and then he started laughing, because the look on Yeshua’s face was all the answer he needed.

“ _ No _ ,” Yeshua said after he had swallowed his mouthful of cookie and cocoa. “Definitely not. He doesn’t eat. No, it was definitely,  _ him _ .” He pointed toward the kitchen and grinned. “And if I had to guess we’re in for part 2 today. All Aziraphale and Nichiel, although I don’t think Nichiel’s around today.”

“Never met him,” Adam confirmed. 

“You should, if you ever get the chance. He’s cool. Weird, doesn’t talk much, but cool.” He glanced back over his shoulder again, toward the back room, and smirked. “You know your friend Pepper’s been listening the whole time, right?”

Adam nodded. “Yeah, I knew she would.”

“She’s a good friend. I had some friends like that. Hang on to her, you won’t regret it.”

“Yeah.” Adam smiled. “Yeah, she is. Couldn’t wish for better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angel Nichiel is a direct reference to the amazing [Celestials on Camera](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425043) series by [raven_aorla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla). If you enjoy buzzfeed unsolved, definitely check it out, it's super good. I've been trying to figure out how to work Shemodai into a fic for ages, but Nichiel made it first so there you go.


	20. Reindeer

As there usually is in cookery, there was, for about forty minutes, a lull. The turkey was in the oven, not to be touched for another few hours, and it was too early to work on some of the other things. Aziraphale took advantage of the break, drifting into the back room where Wensley, Brian, and Newt were lazily paging through some of the newer books Aziraphale had left out for just this purpose*. One of the books, conveniently enough, was about the holiday of Christmas itself. Wensley was studying it intently.

[*  _ The rest of the books had been painstakingly filed away into their places. It wasn’t that he minded people reading his books, certainly, but not  _ all _ of his books. Just the newer ones. Or the ones he didn’t like. Or the ones he decided that day looked like they could use a good reminding of their place in the world. _ ]

“Mr. Aziraphale,” he said ponderously, after another moment’s study in which the angel had taken the time to get settled and take a sip of tea, “did you know Saint Nicholas?”

“No, I didn’t.” He thought about it. “Crowley might have. There was a story, I think, about a demonically-possessed tree, but if memory serves a good deal of the stories of Saint Nicholas’s life were somewhat … well, embellished, so it might have just been an unsightly tree.” And then, his voice raised a bit in case of eavesdroppers, he added, “Not that demons are unsightly, but you know how some humans can be!”

“Oh.” Wensley looked back to the book, a little crestfallen. “Well. I was hoping maybe you had.” He looked up again. “Do you know where the reindeer story comes from?”

Newt and Brian looked up from their own books - Newt’s about lace-making (you never know when such knowledge might come in handy), and Brian’s a novel about a young woman enlisting in the army to fight for King and Country and also her brother’s release from prison - with open curiosity. “You know, I always wondered about that,” said Newt. “Seems kind of weird, doesn’t it? I didn’t know there were reindeer in Turkey.”

“There are in Russia,” Brian pointed out. “Maybe he traveled?”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale allowed, “but I think the reindeer were a late addition. I don’t recall any tales of Nicholas having any kind of ungulate-related miracles.” He sighed. “And he did like a fish story, so I’m sure if there were any room for one, he’d have told it.”

“Why reindeer?” Newt asked, probably rhetorically, and absolutely forgetting Wensley was in the room.

Wensley drew himself up. “I wonder if, actually, it was related to the Yule traditions of Scandinavia. There are certainly reindeer there, and I know loads of the Yule traditions got rolled into the mid-winter holidays when Christianity started to infiltrate the region. I saw a program on the History channel.”

Brian pulled his mobile out. “I can look it up. Oh … right, no wifi.”

“I have an ethernet cable,” Aziraphale suggested helpfully.

“Sorry, don’t think it’ll work,” Brian said, wagging the phone back and forth. “Nowhere to plug it in.”

Aziraphale scowled. “Technology,” he muttered, disapprovingly. 

Just then, Anathema appeared from the main room beyond, looking at her phone. “Sorry, overheard you all.”

“Everything all right out there?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat more urgently than necessary.

“Oh, yeah. All good. Crowley’s arguing with Pepper and Adam about where the little forks go.”

The angel furrowed his brow and craned around in his seat to look at Anathema more directly. “Little forks? Seafood forks, do you mean? We’re not having seafood.”

Anathema smirked, not looking up from her own mobile. “I know. But Adam  _ insisted _ that little forks are crucial for fancy dinners, and apparently nobody else out there knows better to contradict him. So they’re arguing about little forks.”

“Hm. Keeps them busy, I suppose.”

Newt obliged her by budging over and giving her room on the sofa, draping his arm around her shoulders when she sat. “So what’d you overhear then?”

“Reindeer. I’m looking it up.” The rest of the group watched with varying degrees of interest as she scrolled, frowning all the while. “It’s not … very clear, honestly. But yeah, Wensley, I think you had it for the most part with the Scandinavian traditions rolled into the sort of general ‘winter holiday’ idea. Oh! Here!” She leaned in and read quickly, eyes flickering back and forth. “Okay, yeah! So this says on the wikipedia page for Santa Claus that flying reindeer might have symbolized the use of fly agaric by Saami shamans.” She turned the phone screen-down and set it on her knee. Best I could find, on Wikipedia anyway.”

Brian frowned. “What’s a fly agaric?”

“A type of mushroom known for its hallucinogenic properties,” Wensley answered promptly. “You can eat them if you cook them enough.”

Newt looked somewhat amused at that. “So the hallucinogenic properties of the mushroom might have had something to do with the flying aspect of the reindeer, you think?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption to make,” Anathema said. “But also it’s very possible that the reindeer flying might have been symbolic in their own right, and the fly agaric just helped the shamans or was a part of the ritual.”

“You’d be amazed,” Aziraphale said, smiling into his tea, “how many rituals in history had a significant component of doing hallucinogenic substances.”

Anathema and Newt exchanged a look and Anathema opened her mouth to speak, her expression decidedly mischievous, when Wensley cut in. “DId you know,” he said, “that in some legends about the Garden of Eden, the serpent actually tempted Eve with a fly agaric? There’s a fresco, somewhere.”

“Is there?” Aziraphale asked mildly. “I wonder where they got that idea.”

“Probably some fly agaric,” Newt posited.

“Probably. But no, no it was definitely an apple. I was there.” He swirled the tea in his mug as he thought. “You know, I think I’ve heard that before, actually, now that you mention it.  _ Crowley _ !” In a breath, the demon practically skidded around the bookcase to the entrance into the backroom, looking vaguely alarmed. Aziraphale smiled indulgently at him. “Hello, dear.”

Crowley, glancing around the room and finding it devoid of Archangels or, specifically, Gabriel, slumped. “I thought -”

“Yes, sorry. I had a question.”

“What.”

“Who started the fly agaric rumors?”

“Huh?” Crowley scratched his head. “Which rumors? Who has fly agaric?”

“The Garden,” Aziraphale said patiently. “The rumors that Eve was tempted by the Serpent with a fly agaric rather than an apple or a pomegranate.” 

Crowley made a face, and then shrugged. “Why would I know that?”

“It’s your thing, isn’t it? You have a reputation to uphold.”

“Well  _ yes _ but I don’t keep track of all the weird rumors surrounding it.” He thought about it for a second, and then grinned. “Although fly agaric - can you imagine? They really  _ would’ve _ learned the secrets to life, the universe, and everything.”

Brian sat forward, bright-eyed and curious. “Have you ever taken it? What’s it like?”

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the bookcase. “Oh, yeah, of course. Hah, last time I think was in … ‘80? It was the Pink Floyd tour, down at Earls’ Court, and -” he stopped, because Aziraphale had cleared his throat rather pointedly. Aziraphale frowned and, glaring at Crowley all the while, nearly imperceptibly shook his head. “And …” Crowley said slowly, carefully, not looking away from his angel for a moment. “And it was very bad, don’t do drugs, I only did it because I’m a demon and uh … don’t.” Aziraphale straightened up, nodded, and smiled, and the tension in Crowley’s shoulders disappeared. “Yeah, and stay in school. Right. I’m … I think there’s something going on in the, er, other room.  _ Oh _ .” Halfway out of the entryway, he stopped, and turned on his heel to ask, “Where do the little forks go?”

“The little forks?” Aziraphale asked mildly. He did not say ‘seafood forks’. He did not  _ hint _ at seafood forks. “To the right of the teaspoon, on the far outside. Beneath the sherry glass.”

“ _ Right _ . I knew it wasn’t above the plate. That’s the one for … for … ?” he looked hopeful.

Aziraphale smiled. “Cake.”

“Cake!” He turned to Anathema. “Why all the forks? What’s wrong with one fork?”

“I just eat with my hands,” Brian volunteered.

Anathema glanced at him, shook her head, and then, solemnly, although she was smirking, said, “Cross-contamination. You don’t want the taste of your cake ruined by the Cesar salad.”

Crowley took that under consideration. “Weird. Anyway, thanks.” He turned back toward the main room beyond. “Adam! You’re thinking of cake forks!”

A somewhat distressed, “How many forks do you  _ use _ ?” followed, in the voice of someone who was The Son of God but, apparently, no more enlightened about formal dining ware for it.

The ensuing argument was muffled by the bookcases and mostly unintelligible as a result, but the assembled parties in the backroom shared a laugh about it anyway. “I think,” Aziraphale said, still chuckling, “we might think about doing the gifts  _ now _ , rather than later, just to distract them.”

“Probably a good idea,” Anathema agreed, moving to stand. “I think I saw ours by the door.”

“You’re going out there?” Newt asked, over the sounds of someone insisting that there was no such thing as a different fork for fish. 

“I am.” She squared up her shoulders, adjusted her vest, and headed for the exit.

“Godspeed!” Aziraphale called, before they heard Adam yell, “ _ Pepper that’s a butter knife, not a weapon _ !”


	21. Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might be more timely if these didn't get so damn LONG  
> (that's what she said?)

The idea of a white elephant exchange had been Anathema’s. She had devised it mostly because the thought of having to buy Aziraphale a gift was giving Newt a panic attack, and she felt that this way would be more fun and overall less stressful for everybody involved.

She hadn’t planned on the Messiah showing up, but then neither had Aziraphale and Crowley. Certainly he’d probably have some kind of miraculous gift along. The trouble was, getting him to understand what a white elephant exchange  _ was _ . Apparently, they had not been popular in turn-of-the-century Galilee.

“Alright, so I have a gift,” Yeshua said, still speaking in hypotheticals. “That is … funny? Useless?”

“Could be both,” she confirmed. “Or it could actually be nice. We had a £10 limit, so, you know, not that nice.”

Yeshua looked doubtful about this, but bravely soldiered on anyway. “Okay. So … a funny and useless gift. And then you put it in a communal pile, and everyone takes a turn to pick a number.”

“Right.”

“And the first person has to pick a gift and open it.”

“Yes.”

Yeshua frowned. Thus far this had been the sticking point. “And then the second person … can either pick another gift or steal it. Why would anyone steal something useless?”

“Because it’s funny.”

“What if there’s something useful in the pile that’s not opened?”

She spread her hands. “There might be! That’s the fun of it - guessing!” Across the round little table in the back room, Yeshua - Messiah, Son of God,  _ actual _ Jesus Christ - nodded slowly. “Am I at least explaining it in a way that makes sense?” she asked.

“Yes. So then what? What if someone steals the gift?”

Anathema nodded. “Okay, yeah. I mean, so if the second person picks a gift from the pile, they just open it and show it off and then the third person goes, and so on.  _ But _ if the second person steals the first person’s gift, then the first person has to go back to the pile and pick a  _ new _ gift and open it.”

“And if they don’t like it?”

She raised a finger. “I’m getting there. But so far so clear?”

He extended his hand, palm down, and waved it back and forth. “Ish. Open or steal, and if you get your thing stolen, you have to open a new one. Right?” 

“Exactly, yeah!” She nodded, and went on. “So you go around in order until you get to the last person. Then, after everyone else goes, the person who went first gets to go again.”

“ _ Oh _ . So that’s more fair.”

“Right. And then if they steal something, then the next person has to steal, and so on and so forth until either all of the gifts are dead - meaning they’ve been stolen three times - or everyone’s happy with what they have.”

Yeshua nodded thoughtfully. “Yes … alright, yes, I think I have it. I just have to think of a gift, yes? Funny and useless.”

“Exactly.” She bent back over the little strips of paper Newt had cut out and finished numbering them, careful to put a line under the six and the nine to make clear which they were, hopefully to avoid another debacle like the bingo competition the Them had had at the cottage a few weeks previously. Then, she folded them up and dropped them into a chipped old kettle Aziraphale had pulled out of some cupboard somewhere. Across the table, Yeshua brightened, snapped his fingers and - miraculously, yes, of course - held up a gift wrapped in plain brown paper. For a nod to the aesthetics of the season, there was a single blue paper bow stuck on it.

“I think this should do the trick.”

“I’m sure it’s great.” She shook the kettle a little, and held it out to him. “You want to pick first? It’s your birthday.”

Yeshua smirked. “My birthday is in July, but alright.” He fished out a number carefully, and flipped it open. “Three.”

_ It figures _ , she did not say. Somehow, she felt sure Crowley would draw a six, although with Adam here … either way, Aziraphale would be four. It was just the way things worked, she’d learned, when you were dealing with supernatural beings. “Not bad. Early enough you have the option of something surprising, but then you get a look at the first few gifts, too.” She stood and waited for him to follow suit. “I’m going to take this around and let everyone pick - meet you out there? I think Aziraphale’s just finishing up some tea.”

He was, and Anathema helped him with the assorted accoutrements as they made their way out to the main room, where the rest had gathered around the tree and the little gift pile. Aziraphale had, obviously, drawn the four card, although nobody made a note of it. Adam surprisingly drew the eight - she’d have to look that up later, or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all - while Crowley predictably drew six. Newt drew first, and Wensley would go last. Anathema herself was settled in second, with Brian in fifth and Pepper in seventh. 

“You want to start?” Anathema asked Newt, after they all settled with tea or other drinks, ringed around the tree. “Pick a good one.”

“Pick mine!” Pepper urged. “It’s the one wi -” but she stopped when Brian elbowed her in the ribs with a hissed ‘don’t spoil it’. She glared at him and then muttered, sullenly, “Fine. But it’s really good.”

Newt examined the collected packages and, after a moment’s thought, set his mug aside and stepped forward, picking from the pile a silver-wrapped box. “Right. Let’s see what this is.” He tore the paper apart, revealing - “A … waffle bowl maker! For ice cream, I’d imagine?”

“That was mine!” Adam said, delighted, nodding his head eagerly. “Yeah! It makes little waffle bowls and you can put ice cream or candy or whatever in them! One american even said they put fried chicken and gravy in it!” Aziraphale, standing off slightly behind Adam and to his right, made a face. 

“Can we use it if we come over?” Pepper asked. 

“Oh, well, yes, of course.” Newt held it up. “That is, provided no one else steals it …”

Anathema stood up, heading to the tree for her own turn. “Well, it’s safe for me, because what’s yours is mine.” She laughed as Newt mocked a bow toward her, waffle bowl maker held out reverently. “Okay. Let’s see …” At the edge of the pile there was a bag, brightly-patterned in neon tartan. A clever ruse, she thought, and picked it up.

“Careful!” Aziraphale said quickly. “Don’t let it tip!”

“What is it?” she asked, peering into the bag. And then she paused, frozen for a second, as a little tingle ran up her spine and a grin found its way onto her face. “Oh. Is this … ?” Carefully, she reached into the bag and drew forth a leafy green plant, nestled into a little gold-and-silver pot. One of the leaves had, rather prominently, a brown spot. “It’s a plant!”

The Them made a variety of faces, none of them enthusiastic, and Anathema got the feeling that she didn’t have to worry about theft from any of them. Crowley, on the other hand, was staring at the plant incredulously. 

“Is that one of mine?” He turned to Aziraphale. “Is that one of  _ mine _ ?” 

The angel shrugged. “It was. You set it out in the garden just before we left for the city yesterday because of the spot, I think, so I assumed you intended to compost it.”

“I did!” Crowley stepped closer and jabbed a finger at the spotted leaf. “It’s that pothos! It had a spot! I just … I didn’t have time to do it before we left!”

“So I assumed you wouldn’t mind if I offered it a chance at new life,” Aziraphale said, mildly. He smiled at Anathema, a glint in his eye. “Do enjoy it, my dear. Take good care of it.”

“She won’t.” Crowley glared at the plant which, in Anathema’s hands, began to tremble. “You’re not getting away that easssy.”

Anathema clutched the plant to her bosom. “No, never, demon. You’re safe now,” she muttered to the plant. “I will keep you safe.”

Yeshua nodded eagerly. “I’ll help. Should I steal it?”

“Not yet,” Anathema said. “Wait a little … we can strategize.”

“Gotcha.” Yeshua stood and wandered around to the tree, studying the gifts there. “Hm, then in that case, I don’t have much use for a waffle bowl maker, certainly not as much as you all, and …” He bent down to scoop up one in balloon-patterned wrapping paper. “I like this one.”

Brian, cross-legged on the floor between Adam and Pepper, paled. “Oh, no,” he said quietly.

“That’s yours?” Pepper whispered, wide-eyed with realization. “Oh  _ no _ .”

Paper tore. There was a beat of silence and then - blessedly, although Brian still looked a little green around the edges - Yeshua started to laugh. “A mug shaped like a toilet.  _ Nice _ .” He looked it over. “I love it. I’ll be sure to use it around Gabriel at every opportunity.”

Crowley laughed. “Serves him right. I’d say you should give it to him, but it deserves better.”

“Unless it gets stolen,” Wensley added. 

“True. Unless it gets stolen.” Yeshua returned to his spot, toilet mug set on display on the table by him. “Aziraphale?”

“I have quite enough mugs, thank you.” The angel set his favorite mug - the one with the wings - aside, and approached the tree, surveying the remaining gifts, before turning away. “The waffle maker, if you please, Newton,” he said, holding out a hand. Newt paled. 

“Of course,” he said, quickly handing it over. “Obviously. Yes. Er. Enjoy.”

Pepper groaned. “You live so far away,” she lamented.

Aziraphale held the box out to better study it. “Then come visit,” he said, absently, while Crowley snickered in the background. “Excellent, yes.”

“Alright, uh, I guess I’ll -” Newt stepped forward, looked from the toilet mug to the plant, decided his life wasn’t worth it, and turned back to the tree, “- I’ll take this one.” He pulled a sensibly-wrapped green-and-white package from below the tree. “Let’s see it’s … it’s a bum bag!” He tore the grey bag loose and held it up. “Nice! Very practical.”

Wensley nodded happily. “I thought so. Actually, I thought you might like it best, Mr. Pulsifer, so I’m glad you picked it!”

Newt grinned. “Yeah. Cheers, Wensley. Nice choice.” He retreated to his place next to Anathema, inspecting the bag’s various compartments. 

Anathema gave him a one-armed hug around the shoulder and whispered, “It’s very you, Newt,” before the two of them shared a look and started giggling. “You know, in America we call them fanny packs.”

“ _ Anathema _ ,” he whispered, barely audible, and the two of them went on laughing, Anathema unzipping the largest compartment and nestling the plant pot into it. “It’s like a baby carrier.”

“My turn!” Brian stumbled to his feet, and took a minute to study the available selections before turning to the gifts still under the tree. “Right. How about … this one!” He grabbed a red bag with white tissue. “It’s a … snake!” He held aloft a plush snake, glittering along the length of its body with black sequins. “A stuffed snake. Oh, hang on.” He set the bag down, the better to run one hand opposite the directions of the sequins and flipping them from black to a bright ruby-red. “Oh, cool!”

“Extremely cool,” Crowley agreed, before he took a sip of his coffee. “The coolest, honestly.”

“Of course you did,” Anathema sighed.

Aziraphale looked up from his waffle maker, distracted from studying the platitudes printed on the outside of the box. “I found it, actually. Crowley can take credit for it all he wants - I bought it. Do you think the pastry chef at the Ritz would have ideas for waffle recipes?”

“If they would tell anyone, it would probably be you,” Crowley sighed, a little peevish. “And I was  _ with you _ when you bought it, so I was sort of responsible.”

“You were re-programming the stuffed animals to say rude words.” Aziraphale looked back to the box. “Who’s turn is it?”

“Mine!” Crowley didn’t even stop to look at the tree, heading straight past the unopened gifts for Anathema and plucking the plant and its pot from Newt’s bag. “You thought you got away,” Crowley hissed to the plant, which again began to tremble. “Thought there’d be reprieve from leaf spot, didn’t you?  _ Good luck with that _ .”

Yeshua shook his head. “Be nice to the plant, Crowley.”

“Hm, he doesn’t like the ‘nice’ word,” Anathema said over Crowley’s responding hiss. “Alright, well, I guess I get to pick something else. Or steal …” She looked around, studying the available and already-opened choices. “I do like waffles …”

“You wouldn’t,” Aziraphale responded, eyes narrowed. He held the box of the waffle maker a little tighter.

Anathema considered it. “Actually, I would.” She held out a hand. “I’ll take it, please.”

“No!”

Crowley was laughing. “It’s the rules, angel. Hand it over.” He patted his partner on the back. “I’ll get you one of your own, if you really want it that badly.”

“I could have had ice cream in it,” Aziraphale lamented. “Ah well, spilt milk and all. Now, let’s see …”

Yeshua looked to the plant, nestled in the crook of Crowley’s arm. “Why didn’t you take the plant back?” he asked Anathema, who was celebrating the reclamation of the waffle maker with Newt. 

“I can’t steal right back.” She held the waffle maker aloft. “If someone else steals this, though, then yes, absolutely I’m taking that plant back.”

Crowley snorted. “Good luck with that.” The plant drooped a little in despair.

Aziraphale surveyed the available gifts, and then sighed, turning back toward the tree. “Alright, let’s see. A surprise, perhaps.” He picked one of the smaller gifts and tore off the paper. “Oh. A game.” He turned the box over, inspecting the back. “Trivia, it seems. Could be fun for later.”

“Oh, yeah, we can play later!” Wensley agreed eagerly. “That’ll be fun.”

Newt raised his hand tentatively. “It has history and pop culture, so I thought it would be more fair.”

Yeshua nodded. “Excellent idea. A very good gift, honestly.”

“Thanks,” Newt said, blushing deeply. “Er … uh, Pepper? Your turn, I think.”

Pepper was on her feet quickly, scrambling across the hardwood and over to Anathema. “Waffle maker, please.” Anathema laughed and handed it over. “It’s mine!” Pepper held it up triumphantly. “It’s locked, all mine!” A variety of cheers from the Them. 

“Oh, blast,” Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but on seeing Anathema heading for him and the plant he spun away, trying to block her from grabbing the pot. “No! No, it’s mine! He stole it from me, anyway!”

“You were going to kill it anyway,” Aziraphale said mildly, watching as Anathema tried to duck around Crowley and grab the plant. The demon, in turn, spun away and held the pot up as high as he could, prompting Anathema to jump on his back and try to climb his shoulders. “Give her the plant, dear.”

“No!” Crowley gagged out, Anathema’s arm wrapped around his neck as she tried to reach just a bit higher … 

“I’ve got it!” Brian, now taller than Crowley after his mid-summer growth spurt, stood up and, with a short little hop, got his hand around the pot and snatched it away. “Here you go, Miss Anathema!”

“Thank you, Brian.” She let go of Crowley, who staggered backwards a few steps, and delicately took the plant pot. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

Yeshua and Aziraphale, as one, made a face. “Yeuch,” Yeshua said. “Gabriel loves that phrase.”

Anathema wrinkled her nose. “Ew. Noted. Will never say that again.” She held up the plant. “You’re safe again, baby!”

“Until I steal it back,” Crowley grumbled, rubbing his shoulder. “Thief.”

“Never.” She waved a hand at him. “Go on, pick something.”

He glanced over to Pepper. “Waffle thing’s locked, is it?” The girl nodded, and Crowley sighed. “Right. Hm…” He stepped toward the tree and scooped up a little blue bag. “What’s this then?” He plucked the reams of tissue out, until he reached the bottom of the bag, at which point he pulled out a small sparkly silver-and-green keychain. “Keychain? Hang on,” he stepped back to Aziraphale. “What’s it say? S’got something printed on it.”

“Hang on, let me -” Aziraphale took the keychain, looked at it for a second, blinked, and then started laughing. “Oh, dear. Oh, I’m afraid it will look  _ ever _ so good on the Bentley keys,” he said, as Pepper started laughing too. “Did you get this, Pepper?”

“Yep!”

“What’s it say?” Crowley demanded, squinting over the tops of his glasses at it. “Not -”

“It says ‘Not Today, Satan’,” Aziraphale giggled. “That’s a very good one, Pepper.”

“I thought so,” she beamed. 

Crowley was laughing too, along with everyone else. “Oh, yeah. Definitely going on the Bentley keys.” He held it up. “No stealing.”

“Yeah, then he can’t steal the plant, either,” Anathema pointed out.

“Wait -” 

“Okay!” Adam jumped up. “My turn! Um.” He looked to Yeshua and, very timidly, pointed to the toilet mug. “Could I -”

“Absolutely. You’ll for sure get more use out of it.” Yeshua handed the gift over, and Adam beamed, and started giggling. 

“My dad’s gonna be so embarrassed,” Adam snickered. “I’m gonna drink out of it every morning.”

“Yeah,” Brian agreed, likewise laughing as he also imagined the look on Mr. Young’s face. “And read the paper. And be like ‘Disappointing day in the stocks yesterday, eh, Arthur?’” This prompted another round of raucous giggles from the Them, and Adam mimed sipping daintily from a mug, his little finger stuck out. “With just a toilet for a mug.”

“S’brilliant.”

“Agreed,” Yeshua said. “Be sure to tell me how it goes.” Adam looked up, confused. “I’ll tell you how later. Right, I get to pick or steal, pick or steal …”

“Got a nice keychain for you. Definitely apt for you.”

“It would be,” Yeshua agreed, “except that I don’t have any keys. No, you have keys to put it on, it’s yours. No, I think …” He strolled over to Aziraphale. “Sorry, but would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Aziraphale handed over the card game. “I’d imagine you’ll get some use out of that after tonight, as well.”

“Oh, absolutely. Raziel will be fun to play against - he knows all kinds of weird trivia.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’d imagine so. Now, what to do … two gifts left, and no chance at the waffle maker.” Pepper shrugged, as if to apologize, and the angel shook his head. “No, I think … actually, Brian?” He nodded to the stuffed little snake. “I  _ do _ like it.”

“Aww,” Anathema cooed, as Brian shugged, smiling, and handed the snake toy over. “Adorable.”

“I’m gonna pick something new,” Brian announced. He studied the two gifts remaining. “I’m gonna take … this one!” He grabbed Yeshua’s brown-wrapped gift and lifted it up. “What is it?” He tore the paper open, and then laughed, holding the gift triumphantly aloft. “Slippers shaped like fish!”

“Two fishes,” Yeshua said with a shrug and a little smirk when Anathema looked to him, her head to one side. She repeated ‘two fishes’ slowly, and then realized what he was referring to, and started laughing. “I mean, not for eating this time, obviously, but still.”

“You got it.” Anathema and Yeshua exchanged a high-five. “You’re a certified white elephant exchange expert. Great idea.”

He looked very pleased with himself. “Thanks. Glad they’re so popular,” he added, looking over to where Brian and the rest of the Them were passing the fish around and squishing them approvingly. 

“I’m going to steal them!” Wensley announced, as the slippers made their way down to them. “Sorry Brian. I’m keeping them.”

“I figured. They suit you. Alright …” Brian sat back and looked over all of the choices. “I want … I want the … You know? I want the plant.”

“The plant?” Anathema looked to the plant in her hands, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah! I’m gonna study the minerals in the soil an’ see if I can make it happier.” Anathema nodded, and handed the plant over. Brian smiled down at it, and shook one of its leaves. “Hey, buddy.”

“It’ll run rampant all over you,” Crowley scolded. “Get all leggy and sad-looking if you treat it like that. You’ve gotta be stern with them.”

“We’ll see.” Brian sat cross-legged, and settled the plant on the floor between his ankles. “We’ll see.” He tapped one of the leaves. “Won’t we?”

Anathema started to walk around the circle. “Okay, well, the only gift left is from me, so I won’t open that one. So let me see … The waffle maker and the plant are locked, and I don’t want the slippers or the bag …” She stopped in front of Crowley, hand outstretched. “Gimme.”

“This is bullying,” Crowley pointed out sourly. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Anathema smiled at him. “ _ Of course _ I am. Now give me the key chain. I think it’s as appropriate for me as it is for you.”

“Sad state of affairs when humans start bullying  _ demons _ ,” he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Tragic, really. Truly they are capable of great evil, humans.”

“Will a stuffed snake make it better?” Aziraphale asked, using the toy to slowly boop Crowley in the side of the head. 

“No, plant thief, it won’t.” He stalked over to Wensley, glared down at the fish, and then moved on, past Adam and the toilet mug, Pepper and the locked-out waffle maker, Brian and his plant, the boy bent protectively over it, and down to Newt and Anathema. Anathema swung the keychain around languidly.

“No takesies-backsies.” 

“I know the conditions.” He groaned. “Fine! Fine, I’ll open whatever this is that you brought, Book-girl.” He seized the gift and tore off the paper, and then groaned again. “More reading.”

“It’s a blank notebook,” she pointed out.

“Yes but there’s words on the cover.” He squinted at them. “Says …” he trailed off as he read, and then glared over at Anathema. “You did this on purpose.”

She laughed. “I honestly didn’t, but I can’t say I’m unhappy about how it worked out.”

“What’s it say?” Adam asked, craning his neck to see. Crowley shrugged and tucked it under his arm.

“It’s a Bill Murray quote.”

“Who’s Bill Murray?”

Crowley tipped his head down for a moment and hissed. “Dorothy help these children,” he muttered, before he looked up. “We’ll watch  _ Groundhog Day _ another time. He’s an actor.”

“Wasn’t he in  _ Caddyshack _ ?” Brian asked. “I like  _ Caddyshack _ .”

Crowley sighed with relief. “Yes! There is hope yet in the world.” 

“There’s always hope,” Yeshua pointed out. “Regardless of the status of one’s knowledge of Bill Murray.”

Anathema cleared her throat. “I agree. Anyway, Newt - it’s your turn to steal again, if you want. But if you’re happy with the … the  _ bum bag _ , then the game’s over!”

“Can we swap after the game?” Aziraphale asked innocently, eyes on the waffle maker.

“I don’t care what you do after the game.” Anathema waved a hand. “Wheel and deal all you like, but officially, now the game ends when the person whose turn it is says they’re happy with what they have.”

Thoughtfully, Newt studied the bum bag. He turned it over, checked the compartments, hummed a little as he thought and then, finally, said, “I really like the bag.”

“Of course you do,” Crowley muttered, audible only to Aziraphale beside him, who elbowed him in the ribs. 

Anathema pretended not to notice the demon’s grunt, or subsequent complaints, and announced, “Then that’s it! Game over. Congrats everyone on your gifts, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Candlenights or whatever holiday, and happy birthday Yeshua, even though your birthday is in July.”

“I appreciate the sentiment all the same,” Yeshua replied, opening the trivia game and starting to page through the cards. “Some of these are really good.”

“We can play later, right?” Pepper asked, ignoring the angel standing expectantly over her shoulder. “After we eat?”

Yeshua nodded. “For sure. I’m in, anyway.”

“Are we going to have teams?” Anathema asked, looking to Crowley who was definitely not looking at the notebook cover and smiling at it in a soppy and un-demonic sort of way. “Team Whiskeypedia activation?”

Newt groaned. “No, no one else’ll stand a chance,” he protested. “You two do trivia like, every week.”

“Every other,” Crowley said absently. “And yes, Pulsifer, we would absolutely wipe the floor with all of you. It’d be more fair to keep us split up. Give you a sporting chance to beat me.”

“Beat  _ you _ ?” Anathema scoffed. “Until a question comes up about literature, or historical figures that you didn’t meet, or anything in the 80s that didn’t involve -”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Very nice idea, Anathema. We may have to revive it next year - such good fun. Crowley, would you mind helping me with the cooking?” Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Crowley’s elbow and started steering him away from the group, toward the kitchen. Out of earshot, the two of them started talking, and she watched as Crowley held out the notebook for Aziraphale to see. The angel paused for a second, hands clasped and expression pleased and soft, before Crowley hit him on the shoulder with the notebook and stalked off to the kitchen, book once again tucked firmly under his arm.

Newt clicked the bum bag shut around his waist, adjusting the straps for a better fit. “Guess you really got it right on with that notebook, huh? Did you know he’d pick it?”

“No idea. I’m not Agnes,” she said, clipping the keychain onto one of the zippers on the bag. “But when I saw a shot, well ... “ She shrugged. “Can you blame me for fixing the odds a little?”

“Hm. Cunning. You’ve been hanging around that demon too much,” Newt said, but he kissed her anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote on the cover of the notebook was:  
>  __
> 
> _"Friendship is so weird. You just pick a human you've met and you're like, 'Yep, I like this one', and you just do stuff with them."_
> 
> Still not sure if that was actual Bill Murray or a joke twitter account but it's cute either way so there you go.


	22. Warmth

Picture this: An old bookshop, on a corner in Soho. It’s not open as much these days*, but tonight, an icy, dreary and cold night a week or so before Christmas, there’s a warm orange light suffusing out of the windows and into the gray mist of the street. The sidewalk ringing the shop is clear of ice, and steams slightly with a gentle warmth as the rain falls. 

[* _As if it was ever open much before._ ]

From inside the shop, there is another kind of warmth: chatter, comfortable and familiar. Laughter, gentle teasing, casual touch, expressions of fondness. There are plush chairs and wicker chairs and a solid oak table laden with so much food it’s a wonder that it does not, even with its sturdy construction, bow and break. 

There is warm food of all sorts, the recipes coming from all corners of the Earth. There is warm drink - coffee, tea, mulled wine - and the smell of a lemon-sugar candle burning in the middle of the table, oddly shuffled in among the dishes.

There is companionship, in opposites and similarities: an angel and a demon, a Messiah and an Anti-Christ, a witch and a witchfinder, humans and the divine. There is softness in the words and gestures, and there is a fullness to the moment that is brought about by love, seeping into all the little cracks and imperfections - those nicks that come from living - and making the moment whole. 

There is warmth in the moment, in the hours, and it fills the shop and the people inside - human, and inhumane, divine and damned, alive and dead, immortal and not - and spills into the street, into the cold mist permeating Soho. And for a little while, on a little corner, the world is perfect.

-

The world, on the opposite corner, is not perfect. Opposite the bookshop, the world is cold, and dreary, and damp. It is gray and misty and in the mist, the gray seems to solidify and congeal, to cloak the figure of a man standing, taking in the warm light while the rain and the ice fall everywhere but on his gray coat, his gray hair, his lavender scarf.

He puts his hands in his pockets, and he crosses the street.


	23. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tension! The drama! Newt's POV!

Anathema sat back, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and then set the cloth beside her plate, the better to fold her hands on her belly. “What a meal,” she concluded. Around the table, the sentiment had been pretty much uniform: Aziraphale could  _ cook _ . Everyone knew he could bake, of course, and his baked goods were things of legend, but he’d never really prepared a meal for everyone before, usually preferring instead to go out to eat. 

“I’ve never had sprouts that good,” Brian said with no small amount of awe in his voice. “I’ve never had good sprouts, honestly.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Ah, well, the key is the apple cider, so I can only take partial credit.” He elbowed Crowley, who responded in kind. “There’s apple cookies for dessert as well, so I’m sure you’ll find those equally delicious. It’s … what, the second year for the apple trees at the cottage?”

“They’ll be better next year,” Crowley assured the group. “They’re old trees, got a bit slouchy with the last owners. I think I’m finally starting to make an impression.”

Anathema, who had been to the cottage last summer and caught Crowley hissing at a tree while holding a formidable pair of shears, grinned. “I bet.” She started to gather her silverware on her plate, and Newts as well. “Finished?”

Newt puffed a little, and Anathema saw his hands twitching, like he wanted to undo the top button of his jeans, but couldn’t bring himself to be so casual in front of Aziraphale. “Yeah,” he said. “I could eat those puddings all night.”

“Don’t explode,” she said, grabbing his plates and stacking them with practiced efficiency*. “Digest a little, I’ve got this.”

[*  _ When she had been a teenager, Anathema had briefly rebelled against her destiny and worked for a few months as a waitress at a local Olive Garden. Agnes, of course, had predicted this, as well as Anathema’s short tenure: ‘ _ Thee starch-water odour shalle thee abhor, Anathema, and thee patrons be as beasts with foul moodes and tastes, their hunger for ye bread-stickkes which hafe not an end unsated by baskets innumerable. Fly, childe, from thee exploit, for thou knowst thy toils aren’t worth the shite.’**]

[**  _ Anathema’s great-great-great uncle H. Nutter had penciled in the margins next to this ‘ _ Second French revolution? Demons hunger for breadsticks???? _ ’ H. Nutter had never been one of the brighter descendents. _ ]

Across the table, Aziraphale moved to get up to collect dishes as well, but was pushed back down by Crowley, on his left, and Yeshua, on his right. “You cook, I clean, that’s the deal,” Crowley said, snatching the angel’s plate away. 

“Oh, but I can help. There’s so many -”

“Which is why I’m helping,” Yeshua said. 

“Now that I can’t abide -”

Yeshua shook his head. “Nope, not hearing it. I crashed your place for the night, it’s the least I can do.”

The Them were also in motion, driven by whatever bottomless wellspring of energy children seemed to have access to* as they gathered up plates. “We’ll carry stuff in. It’s alright,” Wensley said to Newt, who was watching with increasing anxiety as everyone but Aziraphale moved to leave. “We’ll have everything tidied up so we can play games, no time flat.”

[*  _ Although now, as teens, they didn’t seem to be able to unlock said wellspring until sometime after noon or one o’clock _ .]

Anathema nudged Newt with her elbow before she turned to leave, a wry grin on her lips. “You two just relax. You drove, he cooked, you’ve both earned it.”

“Er,” said Newt, but just like that, everyone else had gone, and he was left alone with the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

It wasn’t that Newt didn’t  _ like _ Aziraphale. Quite the opposite: To Newt, Aziraphale had never been anything but polite, and kind, and welcoming, and all the nice and lovely things that stories said angels should be. But he was also an  _ angel _ , and that gave Newt an unreasonable amount of anxiety.

Newt had been raised in a protestant church. He’d gone on Sundays, with his mother, because she’d felt it was the sort of thing parents ought to do with their children, although she herself had never been particularly religious. He’d gone to Sunday school after, as well, while his mother met with the other adults for coffee and cookies and, supposedly, Bible study, but his mother never really seemed to know any more about the Bible after those lessons. She did, however, know an awful lot  _ more  _ about the local neighborhood goings-on, which Newt had always found sort of odd, until he was older and realized that Bible study was really just an excuse to sit around and chat while the kids were otherwise occupied. 

Anyway, while his mother had been enjoying some well-earned time to herself, he’d gone to Sunday school, where they learned about Jesus, and God, and sins and virtues, as well as demons and angels and Satan and arks and all of the other requisite information. He hadn’t really thought any of it had stuck - he’d stopped going to church around 14 years old, when having a good lie-in on Sunday kept him just as quiet and gave his mother ample opportunity to have coffee with friends without the sermon first - but after Nahmageddon, he was surprised to find just how much of it had.

It was funny, too: On learning Crowley was a demon, it never occurred to him to be scared. Crowley didn’t  _ look _ like a demon, and he certainly didn’t really  _ act _ like a demon. Or at least, not the demons Father Chambers had talked about, which were always eating babies and had horns and tails and hideous toothy maws and were on fire, half the time. Crowley liked a good prank, and had fangs and a tendency to hiss when distracted, and always smelled curiously of sulfur and barbecue, but aside from that he wasn’t overtly  _ demonic _ . Newt had the feeling that even old Father Chambers would have been rather disappointed, had they ever had the chance to meet.

But Aziraphale, he was definitely an angel. Not outwardly - outwardly, he was a weird librarian that looked like he would probably shush you with extreme prejudice - but when you knew he was an angel it just made so much  _ sense _ . Yes he was kind and all of that - Father Chambers had always been sure to mention that angels were kind - but it took barely any imagination at all to imagine him doing all of the  _ really scary  _ things Father Chambers had always talked about angels doing. Things like appearing with flaming swords (because he had, one time), and weighing your sins, and saying things like ‘Be not afraid’. 

Newt was not a particularly imaginative man, but even so, when he was alone with Aziraphale - when Aziraphale was looking at him - he always had a deeply unsettling feeling that his sins were being tallied*. He rather imagined that all of the sins of his life, all the wrongs he’d done, floated around him like ghosts, swirling in a gray unseeable mass, and Aziraphale had the capacity to just look right at all of it and  _ know _ . He’d never said anything about it, but Newt figured that probably just came out of politeness.

[*  _ Not that there were many, but Newt had been assured many times that no matter how few in number your sins were, if there were any, you would go Straight to Hell. Watching an angel engage in several of those sins over the past few years had, surprisingly, done little to dislodge this conviction from Newt’s psyche _ .]

In reality, Aziraphale was usually wondering whether Newt’s clothing qualified as stylish or not, but it always slipped his mind to ask Crowley about it later. But Newt wasn’t to know that.

“Er, thanks for dinner,” Newt said, in the relative quiet that followed. From the kitchen there was the sound of running water, and clattering dishes, and Anathema fending the Them away from the cookies - “ _ Not yet! _ ” - but out in the main room, there was only the ticking of a clock and the dusty sort of quiet you get in old libraries. He shifted around in his chair a little. “It was really, really good.”

“I’m very glad to hear. Thank you, Newton.” Aziraphale was sat back, legs crossed, studying the last few milliliters of wine in his glass. “It’s been some time since I’ve made a meal that size.”

“You wouldn’t know it,” Newt said quickly. “Seemed pretty professional.”

The angel downright beamed at him. “Oh,  _ thank you _ . You know there is a trick to cooking such a large meal. And the kitchen here isn’t exactly  _ large  _ -”

Newt sagged a little with relief. Maybe Aziraphale could see his spectral sins floating around his head, but he was distracted, and for that Newt felt like he had a bit of reprieve. He sat back in his chair, did some ankle circles, and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be long, judging by the noises in the kitchen, before everyone else came back. All he had to do was make it through a few more awkward minutes with the angel. 

And then someone knocked on the door.

Just like that,  _ there _ was the avenging angel Father Chambers had talked about. It was always a little scary, how quickly Aziraphale could go from relaxed and unassuming to flinty-eyed and tense. He still smiled, but there was no warmth to it. Newt looked to the door. “Should I -”

“No.” There was no argument there. Newt sat still. “No.” Slowly, Aziraphale stood up and waved a hand. If something happened, Newt couldn’t tell, couldn’t see, but there must have been something, because Aziraphale looked even more guarded than before. “Newton, if you’d be so good,” he said, softly, “make absolutely sure that nobody comes out here.”

That sounded … ominous. Newt stood, suddenly shaky, and swallowed. “Should I get … Crowley?”

“ _ No. _ ” The angel looked at him, through him, and Newt thought maybe now Aziraphale was counting his sins and weighing his value. “No one. Understood?”

“Crystal clear,” Newt whimpered, and fled as casually as he could manage on wobbly legs. He beat a path through the back room and into the kitchen. There was some kind of assembly-line going on at the sink, but he could have groaned with relief when he saw Anathema and Pepper standing off to the side, Anathema with a cup of coffee and Pepper with a mug of warm cider. He bee-lined for Anathema and, as quietly as he could, said, “I need your help.”

Anathema sighed, and rolled her eyes, although she was smiling. “Newt, I keep telling you, Aziraphale isn’t really going to send you to Hell.”

“No, it’s not that. Something’s happening.” The the side, Pepper looked up, brow furrowed. “Aziraphale told me to come back here, and to make sure no one leaves the kitchen. Something’s going on. He didn’t seem happy.”

The smile dropped off Anathema’s face. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

Pepper glanced to the others - Brian was trying to dunk Wensley in the sink while Yeshua tried to intervene, and Adam and Crowley argued over correct dish arrangement on the drying rack - and then back to Anathema and Newt. “We should help him.”

“No,” Newt replied quickly. “No, he was very clear that no one was to go out there -”

“All the more reason we should.” Anathema glanced to the others, and then grabbed Newt around the bicep. “Come on, they’ll keep themselves entertained for a while.”

“He said -”

“We won’t go out there,” Pepper scoffed, like it was obvious. “We’ll just see what’s happening.”

“And then go out there, if we need to,” Anathema added. “But only if we need to. Aziraphale can take care of himself, probably.”

Newt thought about the way Aziraphale had looked before he left, the look in his eye, and said, “Oh, yeah. Probably.”

-

The bookshop was warded, of course. There were alarms on the block ringing the shop, too, and scattered throughout London, but somehow who ever had knocked had managed to avoid all of them, until proximity to the door made them unavoidable. That alone had Aziraphale feeling on-edge. Then, once the wards were tripped, the thrum of power against them was even more unsettling. An angel, Crowley’s wards had told him, and  _ really powerful _ , said his own. 

At least it was only the one.

The storm had given way to mist outside of the bookshop, claggy and cold. It was hard to make anything out in the fog, even so close to the door, and Aziraphale considered that whoever was out there, whatever angel had come, they might be pulling it in a little more, even, to disguise themselves. There weren’t many angels capable of manipulating the weather - not well - but Aziraphale could think of a few, and he didn’t like the odds.

Three steps away from the door, and a gray suit became apparent, distinct from the gray mist, fading into shape like a ghost. He set his jaw. “I see,” he said to himself, before he straightened his bowtie, tugged his vest down, and opened the door. “Hello, Gabriel.”

The Archangel held up his hands immediately, although he didn’t look afraid, or apologetic, or really anything besides annoyed. “Aziraphale.” His pale purple eyes flickered to the table and tree set up behind the angel. “Happy holiday.”

Aziraphale forced a thin smile. “Indeed. What brings you to Earth?”

Gabriel sighed. “I’m not here about … the past. I don’t even care what you’re doing now. But we have a problem in Heaven, and with you being on Earth, I thought -”

“I’m retired.”

“I  _ know _ . But Yeshua is missing, Aziraphale!” Gabriel blinked, almost like he was surprised with himself, and dropped his voice. “He … got out. I have reason to believe he’s in London.”

Aziraphale blinked, eyebrows raised. “Got out?” he repeated. “He’s returned to Earth as some kind of ghost?”

Gabriel scowled and shook his head. “No. No, he has a corporation.”

“What makes you think he’s in London?” Aziraphale asked, idly. He glanced into the street behind Gabriel, deserted, cold, and damp. “I’d think he would have picked somewhere with better weather.”

The Archangel sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was last seen leaving the entrance to headquarters. You haven’t seen him?”

“Yeshua?” Aziraphale’s hand went to his chest. “No. Didn’t even know he was out and about, honestly. You don’t think it’s to do with -”

“It’s not the second coming,” Gabriel replied, through gritted teeth, “because that would have required the  _ war _ . Besides, it wasn’t authorized. I checked with Metatron.”

“Metatron that authorized Armageddon?” Aziraphale looked to his fingernails, and casually picked at a bit of cuticle. “That Metatron?”

“ _ Listen _ .” Gabriel stepped forward, until his nose was squashed against the unseen boundary of the shop’s wards, blue energy crackling around him as the wards held him back. “It’s  _ not _ the second coming. You did a fine job of delaying that for  _ God knows how long _ .” He shot a disgusted look to the room behind Aziraphale, and it was all the other angel could do not to check that they were still unaccompanied. “You and that  _ demon _ of yours.”

“Hardly. It was Adam that chose the side of humanity,” Aziraphale answered primly. “It was all part of the ineffable plan, I’m sure. I was just there.”

Gabriel glared for a moment - a moment that stretched while the fog curled around him - and then looked away. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Apparently. Whatever. Have you seen him or not?”

“I already said I hadn’t.”

Gabriel pointed to the mists around him. “Your wards didn’t grab anything?”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale smiled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Would I lie to you?”

For a second, Aziraphale thought Gabriel might try to hit him, or yell at him, or take a crack at the wards. He certainly looked like he might, a vein throbbing at his temple as he clenched his jaw. But then he took a breath, looked away, clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, and nodded. “Fine. Alright. You haven’t seen him. Okay.” He stepped back, the better to point a finger at the former Principality. “If you’re lying to me -”

“You’ll throw me into Hellfire?” Aziraphale asked mildly.

Gabriel bared his teeth, and then grunted. “Just bring him back, if you see him, alright?”

“I will certainly try to convince him to return. He is, after all, capable of making his own decisions. He’s not a  _ prisoner _ .”

“No,” Gabriel agreed, through gritted teeth, “he’s not.”

Aziraphale waited a beat for elaboration, and when none seemed to be forthcoming he asked, “Was there anything else?”

“No,” Gabriel replied with a scowl. “Just that. Unless you’re going to invite me in.”

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry, private party. I have an umbrella that I could loan you, if you’d like. It is dreadful weather out there.”

“I’d noticed. But no, thank you, I’ll be  _ fine _ .”

“You could be looking for quite some time, if you’re not sure where he is.” Aziraphale feigned an idea. “Oh, or you could ask Michael to review the Earth observation files. I’m sure they could help.”

“I will not be bothering Michael with this matter. I’m sure I’ll find him, or he’ll return on his own.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I’m sure. Probably just wanted to enjoy the holiday on Earth, for a change. Maybe he met up with some old friends? Ah, I believe Nichiel is in Los Angeles, appropriately enough, so perhaps -”

“He’s definitely in London.”

“Well, then I’m afraid I’m of no help, unfortunately. Are you  _ quite _ sure you won’t be taking the umbrella?”

There was a long silence. Gabriel’s eyes met Aziraphale’s for a few seconds of it, then flickered back to the main room of the shop - don’t look, don’t look, Aziraphale thought - and then back to Aziraphale. “Very. Enjoy your holiday with your humans.” Gabriel sniffed, and turned away. “God be with you, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, you as well. Safe travels!” And with that, he closed the door with a click, threw the bolt and, for good measure, slid the chain* across as well. He watched the gray figure of Gabriel disappear into the mists, and then, when he was very sure the Archangel was gone, slumped forward, forehead bumping into the door softly, and breathed out. “ _ Thank God _ .” Then, more loudly, he said, “Very well. You can come out now.”

[*  _ The chain which just seconds ago had just been very surprised to find it existed. _ ]

-

There was, Newt saw, a man at the door. All in gray, except for a lavender scarf, cloaked in gray mist like an apparition. He recognized the man, too, sort of: Though Adam had allowed them to keep their memories of the day at the airbase, some of the memories were still very fuzzy, as if Newt hadn’t actually been there, but had read about it later. Still, Newt knew he’d seen him that day, and could drudge up a vague recollection of the man scolding Adam for not initiating the end of the world.

Newt disliked him instantly. 

“Isn’t that the angel that yelled at Adam?” Pepper whispered, peering around the corner. “I … sort of remember him. He appeared in a bolt of lightning.”

“Archangel Gabriel,” Anathema confirmed. “Crowley told me later, who he was.” Her eyes darted back to the kitchen. “He must be here for Yeshua.”

Pepper leaned forward a little, only to be snatched backwards by Anathema. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t know,” Newt murmured. “I can’t hear.” In the doorway, Gabriel stepped forward, and Newt blanched, until suddenly he seemed to meet an invisible barrier and was unable to advance any further. Subconsciously, he realized that the noise in the kitchen had suddenly stopped.

At the door, now that the bookshop had grown very quiet indeed, Newt could just make out Gabriel saying “Fine. Alright. You haven’t seen him. Okay.” He stepped back, but then pointed at Aziraphale. Behind Newt a low, drawn-out hiss sent a chill up his spine.

“Don’t,” he heard Anathema whisper, and Newt was certain he knew who to. “Don’t, he’s leaving. Aziraphale’s got it.”

“Bastard hass ssome nerve -”

“ _ Shut up _ ,” Anathema growled under her breath, and Newt’s heart gave a little flutter: She was, without a doubt, the bravest and most amazing person he had ever met, and for some inexplicable reason she  _ liked _ him. What a world.

Newt knew he wasn’t brave. He would never tell Crowley to shut up, for one thing. For another thing, when the angel at the door - Gabriel,  _ Archangel Gabriel  _ \- looked past Aziraphale and into the bookshop, just for a second, his eyes met Newt’s. He was leaning out too far, Newt realized too late, and was clearly visible behind the bookcase. And Gabriel  _ looked at him _ .

He’d always imagined Aziraphale could see his sins, because Father Chambers had told him angels could, but in that span of a second he realized that even if Aziraphale  _ could _ see them, he had never really paid attention. But Gabriel did. Gabriel looked at him, and through him, and Newt knew in that moment that every sin he’d ever in his life committed - covetousness, deceit, whatever,  _ all of them _ \- was being noted. 

It was all he could do in that span of a second not to turn and run. In retrospect, he thought perhaps the only reason he didn’t was because he was so afraid, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms slick with sweat, that his legs wouldn’t move.

“Safe travels!” said Aziraphale and shut the door. Newt watched the angel slump against it in relief, and realized he had also slumped up against the bookshelves, equally relieved to see the back of Gabriel. Anathema noticed, and put her hand on his shoulder, still with her other hand planted firmly in the middle of Crowley’s chest. 

He had a knife, Newt realized as he looked back. A big knife. It probably should have made him feel nervous, demon with a knife, but for some reason it was comforting. Maybe because he knew, in the same way he knew Father Chambers had probably stretched the truth about demons but not angels, that if Crowley used the knife it would not be on Newt.

“Very well. You can come out now,” Aziraphale called. The assembled crew froze, exchanging nervous looks with one another. “He’s gone,” the angel said. Pepper shuffled out first, embarrassed, eyes downcast, followed by Newt, Anathema and then, still with a knife, Crowley. “Oh, Crowley, honestly.”

“Listen,  _ he _ was the one that showed up uninvited and -”

“And you were going to  _ stab him _ ?” Aziraphale snapped. “I told you: The wards work, they held fine. Now put the knife back before you hurt someone.” Grumbling, Crowley retreated to the kitchen. Aziraphale turned to Newt, Anathema, and Pepper, and raised his eyebrows. “And just what were  _ you _ planning to do?”

“Punch him,” Pepper answered, completely honestly, while Anathema shrugged and Newt said, “Yell for Crowley.”

“Was he looking for Yeshua?” Anathema asked, while Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Yes.”

“How’d you get him to go away?” Pepper demanded. “I can still punch him if he comes back.”

The angel chuckled. “Thank you, Ms Pepper, but that won’t be necessary. He won’t be back.” He looked up to Anathema and Newt and shrugged. “I lied.”

Newt blinked. “ _ Lied _ ?”

“I do that, sometimes. I do try not to, of course, but, well, when the situation calls for it …” Anathema snickered. Newt, shocked, stammered a bit, but the words wouldn’t come, stubbornly stuck in his throat, and Aziraphale patted him on the shoulder consolingly. “I’m not perfect, Newton. No one is.”

Crowley had returned, sans knife. “Gabriel thinks he is, the wanker,” he grumbled, arms crossed. 

“But you’re an angel,” Newt said dumbly.

“There’s a difference between perfect and good,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “Apparently.”

“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale added.

Anathema sighed. “It’s always ineffable with you two.”

“With everything,” Yeshua confirmed, poking his head out around the doorway to the kitchen. “Coast is clear?”

Aziraphale sighed, relieved. “All tickety-boo.”

“ _ Tickety-boo _ ,” Crowley parroted, head rolling back. “Always with the tickety-boo.”

“I did promise to make sure you went back to Heaven if I see you,” the angel added. Yeshua nodded. “Which, well … I thought I might escort you back when the time came anyway, so I suppose now I just have an excuse.”

“Sounds tickety-boo to me,” Yeshua replied, prompting another groan from Crowley.

“Need a body-guard?” Pepper offered.

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, no, I don’t think that will be necessary. We can bring Crowley.” He rolled his eyes. “And he can bring his  _ knife _ .”

“Better than the tire iron,” Adam observed from the kitchen, unseen but clearly heard. “Well, maybe.”

“Actually -” Wensley started to say, before Brian cut in, and the three boys devolved into arguing about which would be a superior weapon in a fight, between the two options."

Newt, caught up in the chaos of what seemed to be three different conversations going on around him, blinked. Aziraphale still had his hand on his shoulder, he noted, and he looked back at the angel, sheepishly meeting his eyes for a breath. Aziraphale smiled. “I think,” he said, “I could use some wine after all that, hm?”

Newt found himself nodding. “Wine,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the Them. “Wine sounds good. Um,” he added, as Aziraphale stepped to move away. “Um also, uh, thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

_Good question_ , Newt thought.  _ For not judging me, even though I feel like you should. For not reminding me that I’m not perfect. For not being perfect. For not being Gabriel _ . “Wine,” he said instead. 

Aziraphale looked at him, really looked at him, up-and-down and, Newt got the feeling, in-and-out - through him, like Newt was some kind of specter with his feelings written on his essence, clear as day to the angel - and then smiled, giving Newt a soft pat on the shoulder. “Well, then. No trouble at all, young man.”


End file.
